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THE    FOREST 
LAND  OF  PENN 


By 


FANNY  SPANGENBERG 


IT^ARTI  et  veRITATim 


BOSTON 

RICHARD    G.   BADGER 

THE  GORHAM   PRESS 
1909 


Copyright  1909  by  Fanny  Spangenberg 


All  Rights  Reserved 


/ 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  s.  a. 


Dedicated  To 

MY  CHILDREN 

And 

Grandchildren 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Mission  of  the  Book g 

The  Forest  Land  of  Penn lO 

The  Coming  of  William   Penn 17 

The   Captive's   Return 22 

The  News  from   France 25 

Burning  of  Hannastown 30 

Bald    Eagle's   Nest 51 

The  Runaway 55 

Violet    Hill 58 

The  Dead  Trees  of  Muddy  Creek 61 

Washington's   Birthday 63 

De  Soto 66 

Across  the  Bar 67 

Sky  Rocket  Heights 69 

This  Beautiful  World 71 

The   Fisherman's   Wife 73 

Christmas   in    Norway 77 

Upward    80 

Bright  Mountain  Stream 82 

Firelight    Dreamings 84 

Amid  the  Storm 86 

Communion   With    Nature 88 

A   Fantasie 89 

Yon  Stream  and  Mill 91 

What  Bringeth  the  Day 93 

Sweet  Voices  of  the  Night 94 

The  Spring-time  of  the  Soul 95 

March    97 

April  and  May 99 

June    lOi 

Summer 102 

Indian    Summer 103 

Shadows    104 

A   Boat   Song 105 

5 


•     <      r    »    -  e    e 
c  r       c    c/  »    , 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Duke   Donald io6 

A  Sabbath  Day  at  Sea 1 12 

Life's  Not  All  a  Summer  Day 114 

Were  I  Upon  a  Desert  Isle 115 

Sunrise    116 

My    Little   Bird 117 

The  Autumn  Mom 119 

The   Sleeping  Child 120 

Gone   121 

Love  Lies  Dead 122 

The    Chieftain's   Farewell 123 

Retrospection    125 

My   Dear  Old   Home 127 

For   an   Album 128 

The  Stars  Seem  Brighter 130 

The   Mournful   Rain 131 

The  Exile  from  Erin 132 

Dreams   1 34 

The  Lost   Sheep I35 

A  Legend  of  the  Northern  Sea 136 

Little    Charlie 141 

Happy    Hours 142 

Years    Gone    By 143 

Give  Moonlit  Hours I44 

Too   Late I45 

'Tis  Darkest  Ere  Day I47 

To-morrow^    I49 

Cupid    150 

Life 150 

The  Isle  of  the  Southern  Sea 151 

Christmas-Tide    I53 


THE  FOREST  LAND  OF  PENN 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  BOOK 

Go  little  book  and  gather  flowers — 

Evangels  of  life's  happy  hours; 
And  blooms  that  grew  in  olden  times; 

Remembrances  of  other  climes. 
Gather  them  on  your  pages  fair, 

In   safety   keep   them   treasured   there — 
That  they  may  bring  in  days  to  come 

Some  loving  thoughts  to  friends  of  home. 
With  tender  words  of  love  and  truth 

Recall  the  days  of  our  youth; 
Glints  of  bright  sunshine  catch  and  hold 

To  cheer  us  up  when  we  grow  old. 

Time  in  his  flight  takes  the  slumbering  years, 

And  bears  them  away  from  our  sight. 
The  scenes  of  the  past  grow  dim  to  our  eyes. 
For  ever  and  ever  new  visions  arise. 

Before  us  and  draw  us  away  from  those  days, 
Whose  tenderest  memories,  hid  from  our  gaze. 
Are  embalmed  by  our  love  and  remembrance  and 
tears. 

So  let  us  halt  e'en  old  Time,  and  bid  him  recall 
The  old  stirring  warfares,  the  perils,  and  all 
That  roused  men  to  action,  to  deeds  that  shall  be 

A  heritage  proud  while  our  land  remains  free, 

Casting  around  it  a  halo  of  light. 


THE  FOREST  LAND  OF  PENN 

"Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead" — 

The  patriotic  poet  said: 

Lives  there  a  child  that  should  not  be 

Taught  love  of  home  and  liberty? 

The  fondest  tendrils  of  his  heart 

Round  his  own  country  should  entwine, 

That  he,  if  e'er  its  praise  be  sung, 

May  proudly  say  "That  land  is  mine." 

'Tis  only  when  in  foreign  lands, 

Lonely  and  strange,  our  footsteps  roam, 

We  truly  feel  the  ties  that  draw 

Our  longing  hearts  to  "home,  sweet  home." 

In  other  lands  of  song  and  story, 

The  snows  of  many  winters  lie 

Upon  their  mountain  summits  high. 

Around  their  castled  ruins  hoary, 

Tradition  throws  her  misty  veil — 

Through  which  shines  out  a  glamour  bright, 

That  o'er  the  ages'  starless  night 

Gleams  with  a  wierd,  delusive  light, 

And  glorifies  each  olden  tale; 

Gilding  the  ruins  of  the  past 

That  o'er  those  Eastern  lands  are  cast. 

The  patriotic  heart  can  find 

In  our  own  land  rich  legendry; 

Among  its  mountains,  lakes,  and  streams, 

A  wondrous,  grand,  wild  scenery. 

Its  mighty  rivers  to  the  sea 

Can  float  the  largest  argosy. 

Where  high  its  lofty  mountains  frown, 

Eternal  snows  their  summits  crown; — 

Undying  kings — they  endless  reign 

10 


Over  a  broad  and  wild  domain. 
The  narrow  valleys  quiet  rest 
Far  down  within  earth's  tranquil  breast. 
The  rivers,  with  untiring  art, 
Cut  deep  within  her  stony  heart, 
And  from  the  canyon's  rocky  bed 
Reflect  the  blue  of  skies  o'erhead. 
Its  inland  seas  their  waters  pour 
Down  to  the  deep  with  sullen  roar, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  mists  arise, 
All  rainbow-tinted  to  the  skies. 

On  Arizona's  desert  rocks 

Her  dwellings  stand  in  loneliness, 

Where  once  the  dwellers  of  the  cliffs 

Peopled    the   barren   wilderness. 

Ruins  of  ancient  cities  tell 

Of  some  strong  nation  primeval; 

And    scattered    earth-mounds    bear    the    trace 

Of  some  forgotten,  vanished  race. 

With  wonders  unexplored  at  home. 

No  need  in  foreign  climes  to  roam. 

What  old-time  memories  arise 

From  every  dale  and  woodland  glen 

Within  our  own  dear,  native  land, 

The  fertile  forest  land  of  Penn. 

On  Pennsylvania's  mountain  slopes, 

Where  morning's  sunny  beams  are  glowing, 

Where'er  her  mountain  streamlets  wind, 

How  many  blossoms  rare  we  find. 

How  many  old-time  flowers  are  growing. 

Historic  recollections  twine 

Around  the  banks  of  Brandywine; 

And  round  the  lone,  neglected  spot, 

Where  Braddock  rests — the  world  forgot. 
From  where  the  misty  mountains  blue 

II 


Divide  to  let  the  current  thro', 
Where  Delaware  comes  winding  down 
By  wood  and  meadow,  field  and  town; 
Upon  whose  deep'ning,  swelling  tide 
Float  down  the  ships  to  ocean  wide; 
From  whose  fair  city  o'er  the  world 
The  wings  of  traffic  are  unfurled — 
To  where  Fort  Pitt  once  blackened  stood, 
And  Allegheny  meets  the  stream 
Of  dark  Monongahela's  flood ; 
Where  broad  Ohio  sweeps  along 
Toward  Mississippi's  current  strong, 
From  east  to  west,  this  forest  land 
With  olden  memories  is  rife, 
Each  spot  some  tender  thought  enfolds. 
Or  in  its  grasp  some  legend  holds 
Of  treachery  or  strife. 

In  every  moss-grown  dell  and   glen 

That  nestles  in  this  land  of  Penn, 

The  shadowy  forms  of  other  days 

Haunt  winding  streams  and  woodland  ways, 

And  dark  recesses  of  the  wood, 

Around  the  Warrior's  Bloody  Run, 

Where  never  penetrates  the  sun. 

They  haunt  Tioga's  inland  plains, 

That  once  owned  "cruel  Esther's"  sway; 

They  throng  the  time-stained  rock  where-on 

Her  helpless  captives  suffering  lay. 

They  dwell  amid  the  scattered  pines 

And  hemlocks  that  environ  round 

Old  Indian  Orchard's  burial  ground ; 

Hide  in  the  dismal  Dead  Man's  Swamp, 

The  Shades  of  Death,  so  grim  and  damp, 

Lit  by  the  fireflies'  fitful  lamp ; 

Traverse  the  stretch  of  Wilderness, 

Beyond  Pokono's  mountains  bare, 

12 


Where  once  all  night  in  sore  distress, 
And  courage  born  of  dread  despair, 
The  fugitives  from  Wyoming, 
Weary  and  worn,  were  wandering. 

The  long  low  beach  around  Presque  Isle, 
Whose  sands  the  waves  of  Erie  sweep. 
The  wooded  slopes  of  Laurel  Ridge, 
Fair  Silver  Lake  that  lies  asleep 
Upon  the  mountain  side  serene, 
A  mirror  set  in  rim  of  green; 
And  all  its  sister  lakes  that  smile 
Beneath  the  northern  star-lit  sky. 
Can  each  with  tales  of  witchery 
Our  passing  hours  beguile. 

No  lovelier  scene  each  noon-day  sun. 
In  its  far  round  has  looked  upon. 
Than  where  Northumberland  looks  west 
Across  the  Suspuehanna's  breast, 
And  sees  the  misty  mountains  sweep. 
From  east  to  west  across  the  sky; 
The  wooded  slopes  of  Limestone  Ridge, 
Of  Montour  and  of  Nittany. 

From  eastward  with  impetous  leap, 

From  westward  comes  each  rushing  stream. 

And  join  their  flood  of  swelling  song 

In  one  swift  chorus,  deep  and  strong. 

That  to  the  ocean  rolls  along. 

The  charms  of  hill  and  dale  combined, 

Must  please  the  most  asthetic  mind, 

When  wandering  by  our  own  loved  stream, 

We  watch  the  sunset's  vivid  gleam. 

Falling  on  hill  and  vale  and  wold, 

Changing  the  brown  and  green  to  gold. 


13 


From  old  South  Mountain's  forests  green, 

To  where  the  solitary  peak 

Of  Ararat  is  dimly  seen, 

Out  to  Ohio's  boundary  line, 

Where'er  'tis  Pennsylvania  soil, 

Let  all  her  loyal  children  say — 

"This  land,  this  heritage  is  mine. 

Mine,  its  beauty  and  bright  sunshine. 

Mine,  the  singing  of  birds  and  bees ; 

The  clapping  of  hands  of  forest  trees; 

The  hills  that  rejoice,  and  the  glory  that  falls 

On  lowly  homes  and  castled  walls." 

A  charm  rests  over  each  glade  and  glen. 

For  all  who  can  see  the  smiling  grace. 

That  rests  on  Nature's  lovely  face. 

It  matters  not  who  the  owners  be, 

Of  the  rocks  and  ground  beneath  our  feet, 

Its  beauty,  and  light,  and  joy  are  free. 

Whene'er  our  fancies  hover  round 

In  tearful  thought,  each  peaceful  mound, 

Within  the  consecrated  ground 

Of   Gettysburg,  where  heroes  sleep; 

Where'er  a  patriot's  grave  is  found, 

And  tender  hearts  their  memories  keep; 

Whene'er  we  step  with  reverent  tread 

Above  each  old  historic  bed, 

*Where   two, — who   traced   with   quickened   pen, 

Their  names  to  "equal  rights"  for  men — 

Lie  mouldering  one  on  Prospect  Hill, 

And  one  within  the  shadows  still, 

Of  God's  green  Acre  in  the  town, 

('Tis  there  recorded  on  each  stone, 

Above  their  consecrated  dust.) 

May  every  bosom  feel  the  glow 

That  patriotic  thoughts  bestow; 

And  higher  prize  the  legacy, — 

14 


The  love  of  home  and  liberty, 
Those  hero  dead  have  left  in  trust. 

Time  passes  by.     Soon  lost  will  be 
The  olden  tales  and  legendry; 
Unless  some  loving  hand  will  strive 
To  keep  the  drooping  blooms  alive: 
Will  o'er  the  dying  rootlets  throw, 
Of  other  years,  the  life  and  glow; 
And  lift  each  fallen  flow'ret's  head 
From  its  forgotten  bed: 
And  when  each  hidden  plant  is  found, 
Entwine  Its  clinging  tendrils  round 
The  sure  support  of  years  to  be. 
Perchance  some  leaf  of  memory 
May  stop  our  hurrying  steps  awhile. 
That  we  may  truer  reverence  pay 
To  those  brave  hearts,  whom  Freedom  led 
Along  a  rough  and  dangerous  way — 
Leaving  to  us  the  sunshine  bright 
That  gleams  around  this  later  day. 
Theirs  was  the  peril  and  the  pain. 
Ours,   the  loveliness  and  gain. 


*Philip  Livingston  and  James  Smith,  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  are  buried  at  York,  Penn- 
sylvania. Philip  Livingston,  Delegate  from  New  York, 
was  taken  sick  and  died  while  Congress  was  in  session 
at  York,  and  was  buried  in  the  old  German  Reformed 
graveyard.  His  remains  were  removed  to  Prospect  Hill 
Cemetery.  James  Smith,  Delegate  from  Pennsylvania, 
was  a  resident  of  York.  He  died  in  1806,  and  he  rests 
in  the  yard  adjoining  the  First  Presbyterian  Church. 

The  inscription  on  one  side  of  Livingston's  monument 
is  as  follows : 

Sacred 

to   the  memory  of  the   Hon'ble 

Philip  Livingston, 

who  died  June  12th,  1778, 

Aged  65  Years, 

15 


While  attending  the  Congress 

of    the    United    States    at    York 

Town,  Penna.,  as  a  Delegate  From 

the  State  of  New  York, 

Eminently    distinguished    for 

his  talents  &  rectitude,  he  deservedly 

enjoyed  the  confidence  of  his 

Country  &  the  love  &  veneration 

of  his  friends  and  children. 

This  monument  erected  by 

his   grandson, 
Stephen  Van  Rensselaer. 

Inscription  on  the  West  side: 

Philip  Livingston 

one   of  the 

Signers  of 

the  Declaration 

OF 
Independence. 


i6 


THE  COMING  OF  WILLIAM  PENN 

The  Lonely  Pine.      1800. 

A  solitary  pine-tree  stands 
Lonely  against  the  western  sky, 
Looking  across  the  deep'ning  wave 
Where  Delaware  rolls  darkly  by. 

Like  some  aged  form,  whose  furrowed  brow 

Is  whitened  by  the  passing  years, 

It  stands  in  silence  and  alone, 

Bleached  by  the  driving  tempests'  tears. 

A  few  more  years  of  wind  and  blast, 

Shall  fell  this  relic  of  the  past. 
And  o'er  the  sandy  river  shore 
Its  slender  shadow  wave  no  more. 

Could  it  but  word  the  memories 

Sleeping  its  pointed  leaves  among. 

No  more  unfriended  and  unsung. 

Nor  passed  in  scorn  and  silence  by, 

A  household  word  on  everj'  tongue, 

Its  memor}^  embalmed  would  lie. 

Far,  far  away,  within  the  past, 

Across  the  centurj-'s  ebbing  tide. 

It  stood,  with  kindred  by  its  side. 

And  saw  the  white-winged  vessels  come, 

Blown  by  swift  gales  to  Delaware, 

From  lands  across  the  crested  foam, 

Bringing  a  freightage  rich  and  rare; 

The   germ    from   which   should   spring   the   tree 

Of  peace,  and  love,  and  liberty. 


17 


"THE  welcome:'  Nov.,  1682, 

Yon  gallant  ship!  how  fair  she  rides 
Upon  the  river's  even  wave. 
She  springs  to  meet  the  green-clad  shore, 
Whose  sloping  banks  the  waters  lave. 

The  strangers  on  her  crowded  decks 
With  wondering  eyes  gaze  on  the  scene; — 
The  forests,  gorgeous  in  their  dress 
Of  vivid  scarlet,  gold  and  green — 

Painted  by  autumn's  lavish  hand. 
The  arching  skies  are  blue  and  clear, 
And  scarce  a  sound  the  silence  stirs, 
Save  rustle  of  some  flying  deer, 

Startled  by  stealthy  footsteps  near. 
Speeding  where  tangled  willows  grow; 
Or   the   shrill   war-whoop,   wild   and   strange, 
The  signal  of  its  savage  foe. 

What  ship  is  this  that  o'er  the  sea 
Brings  gladness  in  its  whitened  wake? 
What  pilgrims  these,  that  friends  and  home 
And   peaceful   haunts  of  youth   forsake? 

Across  the  sea  yon  "Welcome"  ship 
Brings  proudly  to  his  "Forest  Land," 
The  champion  of  peace  and  love. 
Attended  by  his  friendly  band. 

They  left  fair  English  hills  behind. 
And  seek  the  sunny  groves  that  lie 


18 


Along  Coaquanock's  bold,  high  banks, 
And  Upland's  sunny  meadows  nigh. 

To  quaint  Newcastle's  peak-roofed  town 
Where  wait  the  colonists,  they  come; 
Where  English,  Welsh,  and  Germans  meet 
With  Swedes  and  Dutch,  to  welcome  home 
Freedom's   Apostle — William   Penn  ; 
Whose  forethought  prompted  him  to  found 
A  Commonwealth  for  free-born  men. 

His  wise,   prophetic  mind  beheld 

A  future  city,  rising  fair, 

A  large  and  wide  "greene  countrie  towne," 

Upon  the  banks  of  Delaware, 

From  Wicacoa's  trees  of  pine. 

Where  dwelt  the  Swedish  sons  of  Sven, 

Up  to  the  Treaty  Elm  that  stands 

In  stateliness  at  Kensington. 

"A  countrie  towne,  that  'fayre  and  greene'  " 

Shall  grow  the  pride  of  years  to  be; 

And  speed  its  growing  commerce  wide. 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea. 

Upon  Newcastle's  shores  they  land. 
Historic  forms,  whose  names  shall  last. 
While  treasured  with  a  reverent  care, 
We  keep  our  records  of  the  past. 
Historic  names,  whose  virtuous  deeds 
A  lustre  o'er  their  children  throw, 
Down  thro'  the  years  till  time  shall  cease. 
From  this  bright  day  of  love  and  peace 
What  countless  joys  and  blessings  flow. 
From  every  nation,  every  clime, 
Their  persecuted  sons  may  fly; 
And  in  this  land  with  grateful  hearts, 
Enjoy  the  gifts  of  liberty. 

19 


But  what  dark  faces  do  we  see 
Standing  apart  within  the  shade 
Of  yonder  old,  half-ruined  fort, 
In  savage  costume,  wild  arrayed? 
The  Lenni  Lenape  of  the  land 
Surround  the  form  of  Tamenend, 
That  great  and  noble  Indian  chief, 
Ever  the  white  man's  steadfast  friend. 
He  saw  Penn's  great  unselfish  mind, 
Above  the  sordid  things  of  time. 
And  met  him  with  a  friendship  true. 
That  made  his  savage  life  sublime. 

When  Shackamaxon  saw  the  throng, 

That  gathered  round  its  famous  tree. 

He  stood  conspicuous  among 

His  Indian  warriors  bold  and  free; 

A  synonym  for  honor,  truth, 

For  many  a  year  his  name  shall  be. 

Tradition  says  he  sought  again 
His  early  haunts  when  old  and  worn  ; 
The  scattered  remnant  of  his  tribe 
Wandered  in  other  scenes  forlorn. 
Near  Doylestown,  by  a  gushing  stream. 
That  wanders  down  a  wild  ravine. 
To  meet  the  swift  Neshameny, 
The  traces  of  his  grave  were  seen. 

Leaving  Newcastle's  sunlit  town, 

Upon  the  river's  rising  tide, 

The  Welcome  sailed  to  Upland's  shore, 

Where  stood  those  pine  trees  side  by  side. 

Those  pines  no  longer  lift  their  heads 

Stately,  toward  the  azure  sky; — 

But  one,  of  all  its  kin  bereft, 


20 


Now  sees  broad  Delaware  rush  by, 
And  keeps  the  memory  of  that  day 
Hid  in  its  patient  heart  away. 
It  saw  the  foot  prints  on  the  shore, 
It  heard  the  joj^ous  shouting  flung 
Upon  the  fresh'ning  evening  breeze, 
In  accents  quaint  of  English  tongue. 

Here  in  the  old  Assembly  room, 

In  earnest  council,  met  they  then. 

How  distant  seems  that  lowly  house, 

Simple  and  bare,  those  earnest  men. 

With  rules  of  principle  and  right. 

From  that  which  rules  our  countr)^  wide  ; 

From  some  who  have  its  halls  disgraced 

By   floating  on  corruption's  tide, 

Seeking  the  gain  of  power  and  wealth, 

By  sacrifice  of  honest  self. 

Of  such  no  future  years  shall  say 

"They  were  our  hope — the  nation's  stay," 

Of  them  no  deed  shall  bring  a  tear 

Of  love  on  history's  pages  clear; 

But  Censure,  with  her  sternest  look, 

Shall  blot  their  names  from  memory's  book. 

1900. 

Two    centuries    have    passed    away. 
And  more,  since  that  historic  day. 
The  lonely  pine  no  longer  stands 
Upon  the  wave-washed,  sandy  shore. 
No  wind  can  bow  its  ancient  head ; 
The  storms  beat  on  its  brow  no  more. 
It  lies  among  the  buried  dead, 
The  ages  hide  within  their  breast. 
It  saw  the  changes  of  long  years, 
So  peaceful  be  its  quiet  rest. 

21 


And  yet  there  linger  round  the  spot, 
The  memories  that  lingered  then — 
Of  that  autumnal  day  that  brought 
The  'Welcome"  ship  of  William  Penn. 

THE  CAPTIVE'S  RETURN 

"In  1764  Col.  Boquet  conquered  the  Indians. 
They  delivered  up  the  women  and  children  whom 
they  had  carried  into  captivity.  Among  those  who 
came  to  claim  them  was  a  woman  who  had  lost  a 
little  daughter,  but  was  unable  to  recognize  her 
child,  or  converse  with  the  captives.  With  break- 
ing heart  she  lamented  to  Col.  Boquet,  telling  him 
how  she  used  to  sing  a  hymn,  of  which  the  child 
was  very  fond.  She  was  requested  to  sing  it,  and 
the  long  lost  daughter  rushed  into  the  mother's 
arms." 

Old  History  of  Pennsylvania. 

Carlisle,  how  fair  the  mountains  rise  around  thee! 
How  fresh  thy  streams  their  waters  roll  along ! 
How  Nature  smiles  above,  about,  and  for  thee! — 
And  yet  there  hover  memories  around  thee, 
Or  earlier  years,  of  Indian  ruth  and  wrong. 
They  hide  among  the  pines  and  waving  hemlock, 
That  crown  thy  hillsides  with  their  steadfast  green  ; 
Beside  thy  streams  and  by  thy  trickling  fountains, 
The  shadow  of  their  silent  tread  is  seen. 
From  far  away  those  fading  years  that  vanished, 
Still  send  their  voices  down  Time's  darkened  aisle. 
And  with  their  tales  of  suffering  and  enduring, 
Our  twilight  hours  beguile. 

Beneath  the  arching  skies  of  heaven, 
A  weeping  mother  knelt  and  sang. 
With  years,  and  tears,  and  sorrow  laden, 

22 


The  trembling  accents  faintly  rang, — 
"Alone,  yet  not  alone  am  I, 
I  feel  my  Saviour  alwaj^s  nigh." — 
Before  her,  drooping  captives  stand ; 
Behind  her,  grouped  the  Indian  band. 
Constrained  to  bring  the  wearied  train 
From  rude  wigwams  and  forest  wild. 
That  friends  may  claim  their  loved  again. 

In  fair  Carlisle  that  summer  day. 

Both  hope  and  fear  alternate  sway 

The  anxious  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 

Till  scarce  the  mind  survives  the  strain. 

The  mourners'  tears  were  turned  to  joy. 

When  Fate  gave  back  their  girl,  their  boy; 

While  mourners'  tears  should  last  alway 

If  Fate  brought  back  no  friend  that  day. 

Oh,  Fair  Carlisle ;  the  bow  of  peace  is  bending, 

From  out  the  cloud  of  dark  and  dreadful  war; 

O'er  homes  wrecked  by  a  cruel  foe's  invasion ; 

O'er  hearts,  whose  wounds  show  many  a  fiery  scar. 

"Alone,  yet  not  alone  am  I, — " 
The  trembling  accents  faintly  rang. 
A  long  lost  child  the  mother  sought. 
And  thus  the  olden  strain  she  sang, 
Striving  to  reach  some  fount  of  feeling. 
To   memories   of  yore   appealing. 
This  was  her  baby's  lullaby, — 
"Alone,  yet  not  alone  am   I; — " 
With  tearful  eye  she  gazes  round. 
No  glance  responsive  has  she  found ; 
Perchance  no  child  of  hers  is  there, 
And  sinks  her  heart  in  wild  despair. 
The  unfamiliar  English  sounds, 
To  ears  attuned  to  savage  speech. 
No  fount  of  recognition  reach; 

23 


Yet  love  still  urges  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  so  with  falt'ring  tongue  she  tries 
The  magic  of  her  song  once  more. 

She  sang  by  one  sad  thought  enwrapt, — 

''Tho'  in  this  solitude  so  drear, 

Ifeel  my  Saviour  always  near." — 

How  often,  pillowed  on  her  breast, 

These  words  had  soothed  her  child  to  rest; 

"Alone  am  I, — "  before  her  eyes 

She  sees  her  happy  home  arise; 

Her  husband  toiling  thro'  the  day. 

Her  little  darling  at  her  play; — 

"Tho'  in  this  solitude  so  drear; — 

And  memory  brings  again  the  fear, 

The  pain,  the  doubts,  the  agony. 

Her  home  a  wreck,  her  husband  dead, 

Her  little  child  a  captive  led, — 

"O  Lord!  alone,  alone  am  I, — 

Dear  Lord,  oh,  hear  a  mother's  cry! 

Oh,  come,  my  every  hour  to  cheer! — 

Oh,  God  of  Love!"  how  glad  the  cry — 

"My  child,  my  darling  child  is  here!" 

Around  her  neck  soft  arms  were  flung; 

Upon  her  breast  a  maiden  hung: 

The  long  hushed  song  the  captive  heard; 

The  fount  of  memory  was  stirred: 

"Alone,  no  more  alone  am  I!" 

Rang  out  the  mother's  joyful  cry. 

"I  feel  my  Saviour  always  near; 

He  comes  my  every  hour  to  cheer." 


24 


THE  NEWS  FROM  FRANCE 
May,  1778 

From  out  the  dusky  shadows 

Of  the  quiet  spring-time  night, 
The  day  was  slowly  stepping 

Into  the  sunlight  bright, 
Of  a  fair  and  dewy  morning, 

In  the  smiling  month  of  May, 
When  the  nesting  birds  were  singing 

Their  early  matin  lay. 

Upon  the  quaint  old  steeple 

The  glancing  sunbeams  shone; 
From  off  the  distant  hill-tops 

The  morning  mists  had  flown; 
And  within  the  quiet  valley 

The  waking  village  lay, 
Beside  the  calm  Codorus, 

Like  child  at  rest  from  play. 

To  southward,  and  to  westward, 

The  sloping  hill-sides  rise; 
And  on  the  north  fair  Prospect  Hill 

In  solemn  beauty  lies. 
Toward  the  east  the  plain  out-spreads 

In  tints  of  varied  green ; 
While  groves  of  oak  and  sycamore 

Frame  in  the  lovely  scene. 
The  creek,  with  many  a  graceful  curve. 

Pursues  its  winding  way. 
By  banks  with  osier  willow  fringed, 

And  rocks  with  lichen  gray. 

As  fair  that  sweet  May  morning  smiled 

In  olden  days  as  now. 
The  loveliness  of  Nature's  charms 

25 


The  sad  and  weary  heart  beguiled, 
Full  six  score  years  ago; 

When  bright  the  morning  sunlight  shone 
Upon  the  growing  infant  town, 

Waking  the  busy  world  to  life, 
And  anxious  souls  to  thoughts  of  strife. 
For  war  had  brought  its  pain  and  wo. 

Its  burden  and  its  care, 
And  lurking  dread  dwelt  in  those  homes, 

On  that  May  morning  fair. 

Methinks  I  see  again  the  days 

When  our  fair  town  was  young; 
When  here  upon  the  sunny  slopes 

Its  lowly  homes  upsprung; 
When  on  the  startled  forest  air 

The  woodman's  strokes  resound. 
And  fields  of  wheat  and  golden  corn 

Adorned  the  virgin  ground. 

How  few  the  land-marks  of  the  past ! 

Amid  the  gathering  haze 
That  veil  the  years  is  vanishing 

The  memory  of  those  days. 
The  olden  buildings,  one  by  one, 

Have  fallen  in  decay; 
The  hearts  that  reared  those  hearths  and  homes, 

Have  long  since  passed  away. 

The  upward  smoke  was  curling  high, 

O'er  tree,  and  church  and  tower; 
The  honest  burghers  at  their  doors 

Await  the  breakfast  hour ; 
With  wooden  bucket  to  the  pump 

The  village  maiden  goes. 
In  linsey-woolsy  skirt  and  gown. 

And  cheeks  red  as  the  rose. 

26 


At  southeast  corner  of  the  Square, 

Upp's  tavern  opened  wide 
Its   low-ceiled   rooms,   and   oaken   doors. 

With  benches  by  their  side, 
Where,  when  the  evening  brought  its  rest, 

And  twilight  settled  down, 
With  pipe  and  talk  the  hours  passed, 

And  peace  reigned  o'er  the  town. 

At  every  inn,  when  morning  dawned, 

Pitt  wagons  stood  in  line. 
With  teams  of  horses,  six  or  eight, 

Their  bells  and  trappings  fine; 
A  tent-like  covering  o'er  each  wain, 

Within  a  weighty  load, 
That  made  the  heavy  wheels  resound 

Along  the  stony  road. 

Where  Delaware's  swift  waters 

Rush  downward  with  the  tide. 
Where  Penn's  fair  Quaker  city 

Sat  nestling  by  its  side, 
Great  Britain's  troops  were  quartered; 

The  patriot  army  lay 
At  Valley  Forge,  all  winter  long, 

In  want  and  misery. 

First,  Congress  went  to  Lancaster, 

Next  to  our  ancient  town ; 
And  all  the  dreary  season. 

Their  fears  had  darker  grown: 
The  British  force  increasing; 

Our  soldiers  sick  and  worn ; 
And  liberty  seemed  doomed  to  be 

Of  all  its  blessings  shorn. 


27 


The  Court-house  bell  that  morn  In  May, 

Rang  a  triumphant  strain. 
Its  chiming  sounded  loud  and  shrill, 
Upon  the  breeze,  from  hill  to  hill, 

And  echoed  o'er  the  plain. 

Soon,  crowding  up  the  State  house  steps. 

Came  men  in  quaint  array. 
With  eager  tread  and  wondering  eyes, 
To  learn  what  meant  this  new  surprise, 

So  early  in  the  day. 

Young  men  and  maidens  gathered  round, 
To  see  what  meant  the  unwonted  sound; 

The  children  left  their  play. 
The  loungers  at  the  tavern  door, 
To  hear  if  aught  about  the  war, 

Crowded  across  the  way. 

A  murmur  rippling  thro'  the  throng. 
Broke  forth  in  accents  loud  and  long. 

With  many  a  wild  acclaim. 
Ring  out,  glad  hearts,  across  the  sea, 
Comes  help  for  Right  and  Liberty — 

Fair   France's  oriflamme ! 

Ring  out,  glad  bells !  Thy  welcome  voice 

Adown  the  aisles  of  time  shall  ring. 
When  future  years  o'er  patriots'  graves 

The  flow^ers  of  reverence  shall  fling. 
The  echoes  thou  dost  waken  now 

Shall  vibrate  to  earth's  latest  morn  ; 
And  with  their  freedom  giving  throbs 

Enfranchise  souls  as  yet  unborn. 


28 


Ring  out,  glad  bell !  All  winter  long, 

The  days  were  dark  with  gloom  and  doubt. 
Amid  the  spring's  reviving  hopes 

Let  thy  glad  peal  rouse  Freedom's  shout. 
Whenever  o'er  York's  peaceful  streets 

Thy  voice  is  heard  in  years  to  come, 
May  memories  of  the  news  from  France 

Linger  in  each  familiar  tone. 

Fair  France,  thou  wast  the  first  to  see 

And  recognize  our  infant  power; 
To  aid,  with  heartfelt  sympathy. 

The  wavering  fortunes  of  the  hour. 
Aloft  in  Freedom's  sacred  fane. 

Among  her  priceless  victories  won. 
Entwined  in  light,  shine  out  the  names 

Of  Lafayette  and  Washington. 


29 


BURNING    OF    HANNASTOWN,    WEST- 
MORELAND CO.,  PENNA. 

1.  "The  first  opening  through  the  wilderness  of  West- 
moreland Co.,  was  cut  by  Gen.  Forbes  army  in  1758. 
He  was  in  command  of  the  forces  from  Pennsylvania, 
Maryland  and  Virginia,  sent  to  expel  the  French  from 
the  valley  of  the  Ohio.  Washington  was  in  command 
of  a  regiment  of  Virginia  troops,  with  the  rank  of  Col- 
onel. When  they  reached  Fort  Duquesne  in  November, 
the  French  had  abandoned  the  fort  and  fled  down  the 
river." — Old  History  of  Penna. 

2.  Hannastown  was  attacked  and  burned  by  a  party  of 
300  Indians  and  60  white  refugees,  July  13th,  1782. 
Their  prisoners  were  surrendered  by  the  Indians  to  the 
British  in  Canada. 

3.  The  incidents  in  the  poem  are  from  an  account 
published  in  the  Greensburg  Argus,  Westmoreland  Co., 
in  1836. 

Prologue. 

The  tide  goes  out  on  the  restless  sea; 

And  the  ceaseless  waves  of  Eternity 

Bear  the  white-winged  vessels  of  Time  away, 

To  the  dusky  shores  of  the  ages  gray. 

The   freightage  they  bear  are  smiles  and   tears; 

Joys  that  have  throbbed  thro'  thousands  of  years; 

The  beautiful  flowers 

That  bloomed  in  Love's  bowers; 

And  smiles  that  have  sparkled  thro'  tears. 

Oh,  countless  the  ships  that  sail  out  with  the  tide; 

We  ever  are  watching  the  lessening  sails 

Of  loved  ones  that  died. 

The  incoming  years  may  bring  blessings  as  fair ; 

But  we  look  with  a  longing  regret, 

To  the  friends  we  have  known, 

And  the  years  that  have  flown; 

And  cherish  their  memory  yet. 


30 


The  dew-drops  sparkled  In  the  sun, 
Like  priceless   gems   that  summer  morn; 
In  light  and  shadow  gleamed  the  grain, 
And  waved  the  fields  of  growing  corn ; 
Its  long  green  leaves  and  tassels  bright. 
Shone  in  the  undulating  light, 
As  floating  oe'r  the  morning  sky. 
The  fleecy,  curling  clouds  passed  by. 
Upon  the  hill-sides  grew  the  brake; 
Within  the  vale  the  orchis  dwelt; 
By  every  brook-side's  mossy  brink 
The  yellow  water  lily  knelt. 
From  out  the  grass  the  Insect  chime 
Rippled  across  the  summer-time ; 
And  from  the  shade  the  harvest  fly 
Buzzed  loud  and  shrill,  unweariedly. 
The  wild  bird  sang  Its  matin  song; 
The  streamlet  danced  across  the  lea; 
Among  the  pines  the  gentle  breeze 
Rustled   its  sweetest  melody ; 
The  pines  that  rose  on  Chestnut  Ridge, 
Like  some  vast  army,  grim  and  grand, 
Whose  firm  and  serried  forces  stand, 
Holding  the  gates  to  Westmoreland. 

Between  the  Ridge  and  yonder  range, 
Lonely,   LIgonier  Valley  lies; 
A  narrow  and  secluded  vale, 
Within  whose  depths  the  shadows  dun 
Grow  black,  as  westward  sinks  the  sun. 
Beyond  the  frowning  mountain  height, 
On  whose  high  brow  with  laurel  crowned, 
The  silent  ages  sit  enthroned ; 
Upon  whose  steep  and  wooded  side, 
The  earliest  beams  of  morn  alight; — 


31 


Beyond  this  rocky  barrier, 

Westmoreland's   fair  and  sunny  plains 

Unroll  their  varied  scenery, 

From  Conemaugh's  swift-rushing  stream, 

To  swelling  Youghiogeny. 

Westward  the  wondering  eye  beholds 

Fair  pictures  Nature's   hand   unfolds. 

Each  meadow,  vale  and  wood-crowned  height 

Bathed  in  the  glow  of  dawning  light, 

Or  crimsoned   by  the  setting  sun. 

When  day  is  done. 

Those  bye-gone  years  no  hearth-built  smoke 

Curled  upward  to  the  morning  sky; 

No  settler's  clearing  in  the  wild. 

Gladdened  the  weary  woodman's  eye. 

Shy  Nature  hid  in  forest  shades. 

Dwelling  in  dim  secluded  glades; 

And  'mid  the  silence  of  the  wood, — 

Silence   that   thrills   the   listening   heart, — 

Like  half-familiar  music-tones, 

To  us  from  heaven  sent, — 

Her  whispering  voice  grew  eloquent. 

Perchance  upon   the  solitude. 
Some  Indian's  stealthy  step  alone 
Faint  echo  woke,  and  then  was  gone. 
The  wild  beast  sought  the  woodland  stream, 
From  which  shone  back  his  stealthy  gleam; 
And  from  the  blue,  o'er-arching  sky 
Came  down  the  eagle's  screaming  cry, 
Startling  the  deer  upon  the  brink. 
Bending  his  stately  head  to  drink. 

Far  down  among  the  buried  years, 

A  record  dim  and  brief  appears. 

The  white  man's  foot,  the  white  man's  hand, 


32 


Had  left  his  impress  on  the  land. 
The  French  assumed  complete  command, 
With  Indian  warriors  fierce  allied, 
And  claimed  dominion  far  and  wide, 
Where'er  Ohio's  current  strong 
To  Southern  waters  rolled  along; 
Or  where  the  rivers  northward  go 
To  swell  the  great  lakes'  deeper  flow. 
^So  thro'  Westmoreland's  wilderness, 
Came  General  Forbes  to  hew  a.  way ; 
Came  Washington  with  youthful  fire. 
And  British  troops  in  bright  array. 
The  woods  woke  up  with  armed  men 
In  mountain  pass  and  glade  and  glen ; 
And  echoing  for  miles  around 
The  notes  of  busy  life  resound. 
Behind  the  trees  with  hostile  aim 
The  savage  Indian  lurking  came ; 
And  many  a  fierce  and  bloody  fight 
Was  fought  on  many  a  starlit  night, 
Before   the  road   was   done; 
Before  the  troops  that  led  the  way 
Where'er  the  perils  thickest  lay, 
Led  on  by  Washington, 
Came  to  Duquesne  one  Autumn  day, 
And  saw  its  rough-hewn  walls  so  gray 
Glow  in   the  setting  sun. 
Amid  the  changes  of  the  years, 
In  after  days  brave  pioneers 
Shall  tread  this  earlier  way; 
Seeking  a  home,  where  fair  and  bright, 
Westmoreland  plains  lie  bathed  in  light, 
Beneath  the  noontide  ray. 
The  woodman's  axe  shall  echo  wake, 
The  w^oodman's  log-built  cabin  rise; 
The  fields,  with  yellow  glory  crowned, 


33 


Rejoice  his  glad,  expectant  eyes. 
Fair  towns  shall  gem  the  river  bank, 
And    well-tilled    farms   embowered   lie, 
When  o'er  this  highway  to  the  West 
The  tides  of  life  flash  quickly  by. 
The  forests  fall,  and  villages 
Lie  scattered  o'er  the  fertile  soil ; 
On  every  hill  the  beacon  fires 
Of  future  glory  shine  like  stars. 
Casting  a  bright  prophetic  gleam 
Over  every  mountain  range  and  stream. 

Brave  pioneers  in  freedom's  van, 
The  world  ne'er  sees  their  like  again. 
Cheerful,  life's  comforts  left  behind, 
They   toiled   with   well-contented   mind — 
Yet  ever  with  tried  weapons  nigh, 
And  for  the  foe  a  watchful  eye, — 
While  wresting  from  the  yielding  soil, 
The  due  reward  of  honest  toil. 
Heroic  hearts  of  humble  birth, — 
Although   unmarked   their  ashes  lie — 
They  were  the  knights  of  those  rude  days, 
The  champions  of  liberty. 

^Where  now  the  town  of  Greensburg  lies, 
A  few  miles  north  stood  Hannastown ; 
With  houses,  court-house,  jail  and  fort, 
A  place  of  some  importance  grown. 
How  fair  the  plains  that  round  it  shone. 
That  smiling  morn  in  warm  July  ; 
How  thrilling  were  the  stirring  scenes 
Enacted   as  the  hours  passed   by. 
Scenes  which   forgotten  history  brings 
To  us  in  faint,  low  whisperings; 
Needing  the  aid  of  Fancy  bright, 
To  clothe  again  with  life  and  light. 

34 


There  Justice  held  her  annual  court; 
There  young,  aspiring  lawyers  came, 
And  from  that  backwood's  bar  rose  up 
Higher  upon  the  roll  of  Fame. 
There  open  hearted  spirits  came 
From  Red  Stone,  George's  Creek,  and  all 
The  clearings  to  the  mountain  side; 
In  joyous  converse,  frank  and  free, 
Held  seasons  of  hilarity; 
Made  evil-doers  fear  to  stray 
Down  the  transgressor's  dreary  way; 
Swift  sentence  dealt  in  every  cause, 
And  strict  construed  their  frontier  laws. 

Where  once  stern  Justice  held  her  scales, 
No  home,  nor  hall,  nor  fort  remains; 
The  plow-share  turns  the  ready  mold, 
And  o'er  the  harvest  plenty  reigns, 
Now  Nature's  gay  and  smiling  face 
No  trace  of  olden  life  retains. 
That  harvest  month  of  long  ago 
Was  full  of  pain,  and  dark  with  woe. 
Tho'  blue  the  summer  skies  o'er  head, 
Tho'  rich  the  guerdon  round  them  spread, 
The  heavens  shone  at  night  with  fire. 
That  made  some  home  a  funeral-pyre. 
Along  the  west  horizon  spread 
Dark  clouds  of  mourning  for  the  dead, 
Fields  were  watered  with  human  blood, 
And   ruined   homes  deserted  stood ; 
Waited  uncut,*  the  ripened  grain. 
The  reapers  lay  among  the  slain. 
'Mid  scenes  that  stoutest  hearts  appall, 
Red  warriors  held  high  carnival. 

The  settlers  left  the  far  frontier, 
The  settlements  were  thrilled  with  fear. 

35 


Where  e'er  a  fort  its  walls  up-reared 
A  throng  of  fugitives  appeared. 
As  yet  around  fair  Hannastown, 
The  days  in  peacef ulness  had  flown  ; 
Altho'  each  day  they  surely  knew 
The  wary  foe  was  drawing  nigh ; 
Each  night  the  red  glare  fiercer  grew, 
And  nearer,  on  the  dusky  sky. 

At  Miller's  Station,  mid  their  fears 

Love  laughed  at  doubts  and  mocked  at  tears ; 

And  so  was  held  that  summer  day 

A  wedding  in  the  olden  way. 

And  to  O'Conner's  fields  that  morn, 

The  reapers  went  to  cut  the  grain, 

For  men  must  work  and  women  weep ; 

Bravely  bearing  the  weight  of  pain 

And  sorrow  war  brings  in  its  train. 

Ere  half  the  bending  stalks  lay  low 

There  came  the  startling  cry,  "The  foe!" 

Where  yonder  stretch  of  forest  stood, 

Some  keen,  observant  woodman's  eye 

Saw  dusky  phantoms  flitting  by, 

One  moment  only, — naught  was  heard 

Save  whistling  of  some  lonely  bird, 

And  droning  hum  of  sounds  that  play 

In  rhythm  round  a  summer  day; 

The  rustling  leaf,  the  insect  chime, 

Thrilling  the  heart  of  summer-time 

The  reapers  knew  the  danger  near, — 

A  sword  suspended  in  the  air; 

Whose  fall  should  break  the  seeming  calm 

That  lingered  round  each  humble  home: 


36 


A  calm  like  that  of  ocean  wave 
Above  a  deep  and  silent  grave. 

Homeward!  with  pulses  throbbing  high! 
Homeward!  the  deadly  storm  is  nigh! 
Gather  your  loved  ones  ere  it  break 
Like  tempest  o'er  some  tranquil  lake! 
Gather  them  quickly,  young  and  old, 
Within  the  fort's  safe,  sheltering  fold  ! 
The  storm  will  break — destruction  stand 
Triumphant  o'er  the  trembling  land. 

An  hour  passed  by — in  silence  still 
The  sunshine  slumbered  on  the  hill : 
An  anxious  hour — no  distant  sound 
Told  of  the  toils  around  them  wound. 
So  Captain  Jack  with  caution  rode 
To  reconnoitre  by  the  wood. 
Four  youths,  with  foot  alert  and  free, 
Followed  the  narrow,  shelving  way, 
That  through  the  lowlands  nearer  led, 
Along  the  Crab-tree's  shrunken  bed. 

O'Conner's  fields  were  soon  in  view, 
Alas,  the  reapers'  tale  was  true! 
Behold  the  Indians'  gathering  force ! 
Behold  the  Captain's  flying  horse! 
With  fierce  pursuers  on  their  track 
The  four  scouts  turn  their  pathway  back, 
For  on  the  redskins  as  they  run 
They  saw  the  gleaming  of  the  sun ; 
They  hear  the  panting  foot-fall  sound 
Nearer,  upon  the  rocky  ground : 
Like  leaves  before  the  tempest  driven. 
Thro'  the  ravine  they  rushing  fly. 
The  hill  is  gained,  the  fort  is  nigh. 


37 


But  now  about  the  silent  town 
Gather  the  foe — the  prey  has  flown. 
The  wild  war-whoop,  the  savage  shout, 
Exasperated,  loud,  ring  out, 
The  mad,  demoniac  yellings  thrill 
The  fugitives  with  trembling  chill ; 
And  anxious  minds  and  loving  hearts 
With  dark  forebodings  fill. 

Within  the  fort's  protecting  gate, 

The  little  garrison  await 

The  coming  of  the  night: 

They  see  the  fiery  blaze  leap  high, 

Their  hearts  are  mute  with  agony, 

Despairing,  at  the  sight. 

The  dark,  up-leaping,  paint-streaked  foe, 

Yelling  with  wildly  waving  arms. 

Look  like  lost  souls  from  lower  spheres, 

Triumphing  o'er  pale  mortals'  fears: 

Demons — rejoicing  in  the  pall 

That  o'er  the  lives  of  mortals  fall. 

The  flying  arrows  thick  and  fast 
Strike  on  the  fort's  stockaded  walls; 
O'er  blackened  hearths  and  ruined  homes 
Without,  the  summer  sunshine  falls; 
Within — the  rain  of  bitter  tears. 
O'er  broken  hopes — and  gloomy  fears. 

Inside  the  fort  the  children  play; 
Fearing  no  foe,  no  care  have  they. 
Too  young  to  dread  the  perils  nigh ; 
Too  young  to  heed  when  elders  sigh; — 
Oh  happy  blissful  infancy! 
The  butterfly  of  pleasure  flies 
Ever  before  their  longing  eyes; 


38 


Hope's  rainbow  lures  them  ever  on 
To  find  its  shadow  further  flown ; 
Brief  smiles  and  tears  succeed  each  other, 
The  clouds  and  shine  of  April  weather. 
Like  plants  they  love  the  sun  and  dew, 
And  thrive  beneath  the  shower  too. 
The  sturdy  oak  that  cannot  bend 
Lies  low  within  its  native  vale ; 
The  slender  sapling  bows  its  head 
Unharmed  by  the  passing  gale. 
The  blessed  faith  of  childhood  hours — 
A  fragment  left  of  Eden's  bowers — 
Blooms  still  upon  this  earth  of  ours. 
A  little,  laughing,  toddling  boy, 
Whose  soft  and  curling  flaxen  hair 
Was  tinged  with  golden  warmth  and  light, 
Two  summers  had  imprinted  there, — 
Unmindful  of  the  wild  commotion 
That  surged  from  burning  tow^n  to  fort, 
Like  waves  of  some  up-heaving  ocean 
Against  some  lonely  island  thrown, — 
Ran  round  the  yard  with  merry  shout. 
Death  claims  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Careless  the  little  golden  head 
Around  the  open  court-yard  sped. 
Oft-times  a  feathered  arrow  through 
The  loop-holes  left  for  muskets  flew, 
And  Jennie  Shaw,  in  wild  alarm, 
Ran  out  to  save  the  child  from  harm — 
She  fell — an  arrow  in  her  breast. 

Sweet  Jennie  Shaw,  thine  image  floats 

Ever  before  my  mental  gaze. 

In  odd,  quaint  garb  and  modest  grace. 

The  wild-flow^er  of  those  early  days. 

A  fair,  half  hidden  violet 

Upon  the  western  country-side; 

39 


Blooming  in  sweet  humility: 

Of  old  Westmoreland  hearts  the  pride. 

Dear  Jeannie  Shaw,  thy  father  brave 
No  more  shall  meet  thy  sunny  smile. 
When  he  from  Lochry's  sad  campaign 
Returns  again,  thy  soft  caress 
No  more  shall  his  tired  heart  beguile. 
No  more  thy  footsteps  lightly  brush 
The  dew  from  off  the  op'ning  flowers, 
No  more  thy  merry  accents  thrill 
With  melody  the  evening  hours. 
The  kindly  impulse  of  thy  heart. 
That  brought  thee  to  an  early  death. 
Embalmed  thy  life  and  loveliness, 
In  fragrance  like  the  roses'  breath. 
Still  hovering  round  thy  native  plains. 
Thy  tender  memory  remains. 

Fair  Jeannie  Shaw !  the  night  closed  in 

And  found  thy  mother  sorrowing. 

But  oh,  the  soft  angelic  grace 

Of  that  sweet  smile  on  thy  dead  face. 

Brought  tears  to  eyes  unused  to  weeping. 

Westmoreland's  flower  in  death  lay  sleeping. 

When  rose  the  fiery  clouds  to  heaven, 
By  some  concerted  signal  given. 
Over  two  hundred  of  the  foe 
Started  to  deal  another  blow\ 
Southward,  two  miles  the  village  lay 
Where  love  and  mirth  held  holiday. 
That  morn,  a  gallant  gathering 
Had  met  before  the  bride-groom's  door. 
In  motley  garb  and  style  arrayed. 
Each  horse  a  double  burden  bore. 
They  rode  along  with  jest  and  song, 

40 


For  several  miles  the  forest  way; 
And  oft  across  the  grass-grown  path 
Some  mischievious  obstruction   lay; 
And  then  the  shout  and  laugh  rang  out, 
Echoing  back  with  merry  din; 
And  swift  ahead  the  runners  sped, 
Hoping  the  wedding  prize  to  win. 
Whoever  reached  the  bride's  home  first, 
His  prize,   (a  bottle,)   quenched  his  thirst. 
A  wedding  day  was  wont  to  be 
A  season  of  hilarity. 
Their  out-door  cares  were  thrown  aside; 
Their  friendly  doors  were  opened  wide, 
And  fun  triumphant  for  the  day 
Held  noisy,  undisputed  sway. 
Wealth  took  no  state  upon  himself; 
Rank  had  no  claim  above  the  rest; 
The  truest  heart,  and  coolest  head. 
And  strongest  arm,  were  counted  best. 

The  bridegroom's  escort  urged  to  speed 
Each  doubly-burdened,  panting  steed; 
The  morning  hours  flew  on  apace. 
And  waiting  was  the  parson's  grace, 
The  boards  were  groaning  with  good  cheer. 
And  guests  were  gathering  far  and  near; 
For  thus  the  olden  legend  ran, — 
"The  wedded  life  the  morning  sun 
Shines  first  upon  is  well  begun." 

Before  the  fiery  sun  climbed  high 
Toward  mid-day  in  the  glowing  sky, 
The  knot  was  tied,  the  blessing  said. 
Till  noon,  the  hungry  guests  were  fed. 
The  merry  music,  round  and  round. 
Thrilled  head  and  foot  with  swaying  sound- 
When  like  a  flash  across  the  sky, 

41 


The  thunderbolts  of  war  passed  by. 
No  fiercer  storm  e'er  swept  the  sea 
Than  broke,  Westmoreland,  over  thee! 

Within    the   bridal   mansion 
Jack  Brownlee  grasped  his  child, 
But  heard  the  child's  dear  mother 
Call  him  in  accents  wild; 
And  thus  detained  by  love's  sweet  v^oice, 
He  made  his  calm,  deliberate  choice — 
Silent,   unflinching  to  await 
The  torture  or  the  captive's  fate. 

Jack  Brownlee  was  the  highest  type 

Of  those  brave  souls,  the  pioneers. 

One  of  those  strong,  impetuous  souls, 

Not  rare  upon  the  west  frontiers. 

Hand  quick  to  strike,  heart  quick  to  feel 

The  sadness  of  another's  grief. 

The  sunlight  of  another's  smile; 

And  always  ready  to  beguile 

The  passing  hours  with  jests  the  while. 

The  Indians  knew  his  sinewy  form, 

Had  felt  the  blows  of  his  strong  arm ; 

Feared  his  quick  rifle,  for  they  knew 

How  sure  his  aim, 

How  steady  and  how  true. 

Altho'  the  forest  monarch  bound  may  be. 

Yet  still  retain  his  kingly  majesty. 

So  Brownlee's  eye,  undaunted,  brightly  shone, 

And  made  their  spirits  quail  before  his  own. 

The  bridegroom  and  the  bonny  bride 
Dreamed  not  that  morn,  that  sundered  wide 
For  ten  long  years,  their  paths  would  be. 
Ere  fate  and  peace  should  set  them  free. 


42 


Destined  in  Canada's  cold  clime 
To  pass  the  long,  unhappy  days, 
Till  longing  hearts  and  tear-filled  eyes 
Should  greet  again  familiar  ways. 

A  lovely  maiden,  Marian  H , 


Among  the  bridal  party  shone. 

Her  mother  and  her  sister  too, 

Had   come  that  morn   from   Hannastown. 

They  too  by  fate  were  northward  borne, 

From  home  and  kindred  cruelly  torn. 

Oh !  who  can  paint  the  agony 

Each  loving  heart  must  have  endured ; 

Exhaustion,  hunger,  misery. 

Of  life  and  safety  unassured; 

The  dreary  days,  the  weary  nights; 

The  torture,  and  the  dreadful  sights; 

The  burial  of  dead  hopes  in  years 

Of  wasted  love  and  blighting  tears. 

Amidst  the  panic-stricken  throng, 
A  youthful  hunter  quickly  caught 
A  little  child,  forsaken,  lost, 
And  for  a  place  of  safety  sought. 
He  fled  the  house,  and  panting  ran 
To  where  a  copse  concealed  from  view. 
And  tho'  pursued,  hid  in  a  field 
Of  growing  corn,  so  thick  and  high, 
Until  the  gathering  shades  of  night 
Assisted  them  to  further  flight. 
The  little  one  was  Brownlee's  child. 
Poor  orphan !    God  watched  over  thee ! 
Thy  father  murdered  ere  the  night; 
The  babe  he  carried  cruelly  slain; 
Thy  mother  bore  in  speechless  pain, 
Sorrowing  for  thee  too  in  vain, 


43 


The  crushing  weight  of  agony, 

That  streaked  her  dark  brown  hair  with  white, 

And  brought  her  to  an  early  grave, 

Beside  St.  Lawrence  distant  wave. 

One  little  incident  occurred, 
That  often  as  the  tale  I  heard. 
Excites  my  wonder  and  surprise, 
Till  tears  overflow  my  ready  eyes. 
Down  at  the  foot  of  that  steep  hill, 
That  upward  led  to  George's  farm, 
A  son,  his  aged  mother,  led, 
His  baby  boy  upon  his  arm. 

They  toiled  the  rough  and  steep  hill-road. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  wood; 

Her  heart  and  steps  were  weak  with  fear 

Of  cruel  foemen  ever  near; 

The  father  left  his  little  child. 

That  in  his  face  so  loving  smiled. 

Beneath  the  trees,  and  hastily. 

Heart  heavy  with  its  misery, 

Gave  his  strong  arms'  support  and  care, 

His  aged  mother's  weight  to  bear. 

How  dare  ye  say  he  did  not  right? 
How  know  ye  if  it  might  not  be 
A  sacrifice,  in  Heaven's  sight. 
To  filial  love  and  piety? 

At  dawn  of  day  the  father  came 
Back  to  his  desolated  home. 
Its  walls  were  all  untouched  by  flame, 
It  stood  so  humble  and  alone. 


44 


Sorrowing,  he  sought  along  the  wood — 
No  trace  of  child  nor  foe  was  there — 
But  when  within  his  home  he  stood, 
Entranced  before  the  sight  so  fair, 
His  little  child  with  curly  head 
Asleep  upon  its  little  bed, 
Raised  from  affliction's  depth  he  cried, 
"I  thought  the  child  had  surely  died. 
Saved  by  Protecting  Power  above, 
Father,  I  thank  Thee  for  Thy  love!" 
Then  snatching  up  his  sleeping  child. 
Kissed,  till  he  oped  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

Do  guardian  angels  vigil  keep 
O'er  children,  when  they  wake  or  sleep? 
Did  his  dead  mother,  left  in  ward 
Around  her  boy,  keep  loving  guard? 
Ah !  we  shall  know,  when  Time  shall  be 
The  first  page  of  Eternity. 

When  from  O'Conner's  field  in  haste. 
His  pathway  Capt.  Jack  retraced. 
Aside  he  turned,  and  took  a  route 
To  evade  the  foe,  by  Brownlee's  wood, 
Spreading  the  tidings  as  he  rode. 
Where'er  a  lonely  cabin  stood. 
He  gave  assistance  in  their  need. 
Carried  the  helpless  on  his  steed. 
And  led  them  on  to  George's  farm. 
Where  they  might  be  secure  from  harm ; 
A  strong  stone  house,  which  oft  before 
A  refuge  proved  in  time  of  war. 

And  then  intent  on  thoughts  of  care, 
Not  knowing  that  the  foe  was  there. 
Toward  Millerstown,  the  dusty  way, 
O'er  hill  and  dale  before  him  lay. 

45 


A  dense  black  smoke  was  hovering, 

Like  some  huge  bird  with  out-stretched  wing, 

Above  the  blackened  fields  of  grain. 

Above  the  once  familiar  spot, 

Where  naught  but  ruined  homes  remain. 

It  changed  the  smiling  sky  to  gray, 

Thro'  which  the  sullen  sun  looked  down 

With  reddened  eye, — how  changed  since  morn, 

And  saw  the  plains  of  Hannastown, 

Of  strength  and  life  and  beauty  shorn. 

Jack  knew  destruction's  hand  was  red, 

And  swifter  o'er  the  road  he  sped 

His  friends  and  relatives  to  warn. 

Dismayed,  the  captives  see  him  come ; 

Appalled,  they  watch  his  headlong  course; 

When  lo !  He  looks !  he  sees  the  foe ! 

And  backward  turns  his  horse. 

Pursued !  Thick  clouds  of  dust  arise 

And  hide  him  from  their  anxious  eyes. 

Baffled!  the  wild  pursuers  turn 

Back  from  the  chase.    They  kill !  They  burn ! 

The  helpless  prisoners,  sick  at  heart. 

From  home  and  happiness  depart. 

If  strength  shall  fail,  a  cruel  blow 

Of  tomahawk  will  lay  them  low; 

If  children  cry,  their  life  shall  be 

Dashed  out  against  some  forest  tree. 

And  mourning  hearts  their  grief  must  bear 

Speechless,  In  shuddering  despair. 

The  sun,  low  in  the  western  sky, 
Shot  pointed  barbs  of  golden  light, 
WTiere  waved  above  the  sunset  clouds, 
The  evening's  crimson  banners  bright. 
The  evening  shadows  misty  rose. 
The  tinted  clouds  in  darkness  died, 

46 


The  sighing  of  the  forest  trees 

Came  trembling  from  the  green  hillside. 

Within  the  fort  in  fear  and  dread, 

With  sinking  hearts  they  watched  the  sun. 

They  feared  that  ere  the  light  was  dead, 

The  Indians'  victory'd  be  won, 

And  life's  short  race  be  run. 

With  failing  heart  they  count  anew 

But  twenty  rifles  good  and  true. 

Ah!  husbands,  brothers,  far  away, 

Could  ye  but  know  the  woeful  strait, 

In  which  your  loved  lie  desolate, 

How  w^ould  ye  strive  against  your  fate, 

And  seek  on  homeward  wings  to  fly. 

But  ye  may  fall  on  battlefield. 

Lonely,  unfriended,  there  to  die. 

And  these  loved  ones  may  vigils  keep 

For  those  who  in  Death's  slumber  sleep. 

The  twilight  deepened,  till  the  sight 

Could  not  distinguish  waving  shade 

From  foliage,  where  dark  phantoms  strayed ; 

Tell  which  was  false,  and  which  was  true. 

And  darker  still  the  shadows  grew. 

And  phantom  forms  along  the  road 

Seemed  flitting  where  the  moonbeams  glowed ; 

Or  o'er  the  blackened  depths  that  lay. 

Beside  the  rough  and  rocky  way. 

These  phantom  forms,  that  gathered  round 

With  stealthy  step  o'er  silent  ground. 

Proved  two-score  men  from  George's  farm. 

Gaining  the  fort  without  alarm. 

Welcoming  gates  were  opened  wide, 

A  hasty  council  held  inside. 

And  soon  the  roll  of  martial  drum 

Proclaimed  glad  tidings — help  had  come. 

47 


Along  the  Crab-tree's  shrunken  stream 
Shone  redly  forth  the  camp-fire's  gleam; 
Where  helpless  on  the  hard,  bare  ground, 
The  captives  lay  securely  bound, 
And  saw  the  wild  carousing  'round. 
Sleep  brought  no  balm  that  wretched  night, 
Nor  pressed  her  finger  soft  and  light, 
Upon  the  blood-shot  eye  and  brain, 
That  ever  starting  with  affright. 
Saw  all  those  scenes  throng  back  again. 
And  stalk  across  the  blood-stained  plain. 
Draped  in  their  red  and  horrid  guise. 
Thro'  long,  long  years  those  memories, 
In  brighter  hours,  shall  cruelly  rise. 
And  quench  the  light  in  laughing  eyes. 

Floating  distinctly  down  the  glen, 
They  hear  the  waves  of  echoing  sound 
Reverberate  the  hills  around. 
Across  the  bridge  the  tread  of  men, 
(Returning  back  and  back  again,) 
Of  horsemen's  steady  falling  tramp — 
(Dismay  falls  on  the  Indian  camp,) 
Comes  to  their  ears  with  startling  power 
Across  the  unquiet  midnight  hour; 
And  tell  that  hope  and  help  have  come. 
Tho'  hope  and  help  seem  now  so  near 
Yet  none  the  captives'  hearts  may  cheer. 

The  early  hours  were  jubilant 

With  music  tones  flung  to  the  breeze; 

The  busy  din  of  warlike  life 

Rushed  wildly  'mong  the  forest  trees. 

Fearing  its  power,  the  redskins  fled. 

Their  suffering  captives  northward  led. 

And  when  the  dawning  grew  to  day 

48 


Were  miles  upon  their  flying  way; 
And  that  small  band  of  men — two  score, 
Were  free  to  seek  their  homes  once  more. 

Another  morn !  In  one  short  day 

How  much  of  sad  experience  lay. 

Upon  each  blackened  field  and  plain 

No  need  of  reapers  for  the  grain. 

No  happy  homes,  no  sunny  flowers, 

No  more  of  Summer's  restful  hours. 

The  unburied  dead  they  sought  and  found. 

You  still  may  see  in  Mechlin's  lot, — 

(Which  e'er  should  be  a  hallowed  spot) 

When  flowers  deck  each  soldier's  mound, 

Their  sad  and  lonely  burial  ground. 

So  drear  and   dreadful  was  the  scene ; 

Destruction's  hand  so  strong  had  been, 

They  left  their  homes  in  ruins  lie. 

But  where  they  lived,  or  where  they  died, 

Belongs  to  olden   history. 

No  home,  no  hall,  no  fort  remains 

To  tell  the  tale  of  ancient  days. 

Sometimes  outlines  of  shadowy  forms 

Seem  flitting  thro'  the  woodland  ways, 

Where  slumber  olden  memories. 

Sometimes,  when  mid-night  hours  are  still. 

And  darkness  hides  each  distant  hill, 

Come  wild,  wierd  sounds  upon  the  breeze. 

Moaning  among  the  willow  trees. 

Shrieking   adown   the   dark    ravine. 

Where  still  they  say  strange  sights  are  seen  ; 

And  flashes  red  light  up  the  sky, 

But  all  is  veiled  in  mystery. 


49 


And  yet  one  star  shines  soft  and  bright, 

Across  the  lonely  winter  night, 

That  shrouds  the  captives  from  our  sight, 

In  far  off  Montreal. 

Fair  Marian,  with  her  lovely  face, 

Her  unadorned  and  simple  grace, 

And  slender  figure  tall. 

Is  given  into  the  tender  care 

Of  English  courtesy. 

Touched  by  her  suffering  and  her  woes, 

Pity,  her  mantle  round  her  throws, 

And  Love  bends  low  the  knee. 

Won  by  her  gentle  modesty. 

An   officer  of   high   degree, 

Loved,  wooed  and  wed  the  maiden  fair: 

Loving,  beloved,  a  happy  wife. 

She  walked  her  sunny  path  of  life ; 

And  sent  her  memor}^  down  the  years, 

Smiling,  from  out  a  mist  of  tears. 


50 


BALD  EAGLE'S  NEST 

Centre  Co.j  Penn. 

High  in  the  clefts  of  the  olden  rocks, 

The  fearless  bird  of  the  upper  air 

Shrieks  his  wild  shout  to  the  elements, 

And  rears  his  home  and  his  kingdom  there. 

Or  where  the  distant  mountain's  brow 

Towers  aloft  in  its  mighty  pride, 

O'er  the  vales  below,  and  the  trees  that  bow 

To  the  gale  that  sweeps  its  rugged  side — 

With  vision  keen  in  the  sun's  bright  gleam, 

He  scans  the  plain,  the  stream,  the  wood; 

And  far  above  the  realm  of  man, 

He  builds  his  nest  and  tends  his  brood. 

Oh,  valiant  bird !  with  eye  undimmed 
By  rays  that  dull  and  blind  our  own ; 
With  power  to  breast  the  wind  and  storm, 
And  stand  undaunted  and  alone 
Above  the  lower  walks  of  life. 
Amid  the  elements'  wild  war — 
And  upward  soar,  on  untired  wing, 
Toward  some  purer,  brighter  star, 
That  seems  to  beckon  from  afar, — 
Defiant  bird !  thy  home  must  be 
The  high  birthplace  of  liberty. 

Where  Alleghany's  mountains  rise, 
Outlined  along  the  western  sky. 
Among  their  hidden  sylvan  shades 
The  copious  springs  in  fulness  lie. 
Each  brooklet  from  its  shadowed  source 
Gurgles  along  its  downward  course 
Across  the  sand  and  shale. 


51 


And  wid'ning,  deep'ning  as  they  go, 

Mingling  together  in  their  flow, 

Leap  down  the  narrow  vale. 

While  eastward,  other  mountains  rise, 

Stretching  a  long,  unbroken  line, 

From  south  to  north,  with  groves  of  pine, 

Hemlock  and  locust  covering 

Their  lofty  battlements  with  green. 

Where  Milesburg  nestles  in  the  vale, 

Where    Spring   Creek's   crystal   streams   well   up, 

And  bubbling  from  the  limestone  cliffs, 

May  well  the  name  "Belle  Fountain"  bear, 

So  pure  and  clear  their  waters  are, — 

In   olden   days,   when   Indian  braves 

Dwelt  where  the  wild  cat  had  its  lair; 

When   Senecas  and   Delawares 

Laid  claim  to  all  the  region  fair, — 

Upon  the  highest  mountain  peak, 

Two  ancient  oaks  their  branches  flung 

Like  banners  to  the  waving  breeze; 

And  on  their  tops  the  morning  hung 

Its  penciled  harbingers  of  light, 

From  this  high  rampart,  far  and  wide 

The  eye  could  view  the  lovely  scene ; 

Could  trace  the  shining  course  of  streams 

Where'er  their  waters  caught  the  light. 

Along  their  banks  the  willows  green 

Upturned   their  leaves  with  silvery  sheen. 

About  them  hung  at  early  dawn 

The  misty  breathing  of  the  night. 

And  in  the  heart  the  vision  bright 

Awakened  ever-new  delight. 

Like  his  fierce  sponsor  of  the  air, 
Raid  Eagle  built  his  eyrie  there. 
Beneath  the  spreading  oaken  shade, 

52 


In  infancy  his  papoose  played 

Around  the  mountain's  rocky  crest. 

From  hence  his  glancing  eye  so  keen 

Could  see  the  red  deer  speeding  by; 

Could  watch  the  summer  sunlight  shine 

Along  the  horizon's  distant  line. 

His  ear  could  catch  the  human  cry 

Of  the  wild  panther's  wail. 

With  spirit  proud  as  that  fierce  bird, 

Whose  scream  high  from  the  clouds  is  heard 

Above  the  rising  gale; — 

So  rang  his  war-whoop  o'er  the  wild. 

Bald  Eagle's  nest,  above  the  plain — 

A  fitting  home  for  Nature's  child, — 

Gave  name  to  all  the  mountain  chain. 

From  this  high  perch  his  roving  eye 

Could  trace  the  winding  course  of  streams. 

Could  see  with  power  deep  and  strong, 

His  own  swift  streamlet  rush  along, 

To  meet,  emerging  from  the  chain 

Of   mountains   westward,    to    the   plain. 

Another  stream,  whose  swifter  foot 

Springs  onward   to  the  distant  sea, 

O'er   fair   and    fertile   bottom   lands. 

Where   now   Lock    Haven   smiling   stands, 

Bald  Eagle  joins  the  swelling  tide 

Of  Susquehanna's  ceaseless  flow ; 

And  White  Deer  down  the  mountain-side, 

And  Pine  Creek,  meet  them  as  they  go 

By  Nippenose  and  Nittany. 

The  mountain   range,   the  stream,  the  vale, 

Bald  Eagle's  name  alone  recall. 

The  olden  days  are  gone.     No  more 

The  pioneer  recites  the  tale 

Of  those  wild  days,  when  orphan's  wail 

And  widow's  weeping  thrilled  the  heart. 

53 


When  from  his  eyrie  swooped  the  bird 

Of  prey,  and  his  wild  shriek  was  heard, 

Ringing  the  woods  and  meadows  o'er, 

And  echoing  from  shore  to  shore. 

High  in  the  mountain-top  no  more 

He  lifts  his  haughty  head. 

In  some  forgotten  grave  he  lies 

Among  the  unnumbered  dead. 

His  days  are  o'er,  his  warlike  deeds 

Forgotten   in   the  past; 

But  in  his  own  wild  solitudes 

Bald  Eagle's  name  shall  last. 


54 


THE   RUNAWAY 

A  Legend  of  Lackawanna,  Penna. 

Among  the  Moosic  mountains 

A  little  stream  is  born, 
And  down  the  mossy  hillside 

Its  shallow  course  has  torn. 
It   flows   around   the  hillock, 

It  winds  the  meadows  thro', 
'Mid  grassy  sedge  and  willow, 

By  pine  and  hemlock  too. 

It  ripples  down  the  valley 

Through  brush  and  laurel  tall, 
And  in  the  Lackawanna 

Its  dancing  waters  fall. 
One  morn,  when  bears  and  panthers, 

And  wolves  roved  fierce  and  wild. 
Beside  this  mountain  streamlet, 

Wandered  a  little  child. 

'Twas  ere  a  town  or  city 

Embraced  the  mountain  side. 
Thick  forests,  vast  and  gloomy, 

Darkened  the  country  wide, 
A  settler,  with  his  household 

From  New  England  vales  had  come; 
Beside  this  rippling  streamlet 

He  built  his  lowly  home. 

This  little  child,  the  youngest, 

The  darling  pet  and  pride. 
Had  wandered  far  that  morning 

From  the  tired  mother's  side; 
Who  thought  her  with  the  father, 


55 


Out  in  the  fields  away, 
And  neither  missed  nor  sought  her, 
Till  middle  of  the  day. 

The  search  was  long  and  weary; 

The  night  was  long  and  drear; 
The  woods  were  dark  and  lonely, 

With  many  a  peril  near. 
How  could  a  tender  infant, 

Have  strength  afar  to  stray, 
When  stealthy  beasts  were  lurking, 

In  every  woodland  way? 

The  months  and  years  were  counted 

Among  the  things  that  died. 
And  many  homes  were  growing 

On  Lackawanna's  side. 
And  down,  far  down  the  valley. 

Where  the  river  leaps  along 
Into  the  Susquehanna, 

With  its  mountain  current  strong- 
Was  a  fair  and  growing  village, 

And  hither  came  one  day, 
The  eldest  of  the  brothers 

Of  the  child  that  strayed  away. 

It  is  no  lengthy  journey 

For  trav'lers  of  to-day. 
But  one  and  twenty  mile  stones 

Now  mark  the  traveled  way. 
But  then  the  path  was  lonely. 

The  roads  were  roughly  made, 
And  dangers  still  lay  hidden 

Within  the  forest  shade. 


56 


Dwelling  among  the  people, 

Sharing  their  hopes  and  fears, 
This  brother  heard  a  story 

Recalled  the  missing  years, — 
About  a  fair,  young  maiden 

To  all  Wyoming  dear. 
The  simple  tale  was  thrilling 

The  eager  list'ner's  ear. 

Back  in  the  years  it  started, — 

One  sunny  summer  morn. 
With  clothing  torn  by  briars. 

All  hungry  and  forlorn, 
A  little  child  came  tott'ring 

Along  the  grassy  way, 
That  led  adown  the  river's  bank. 

Where  cows  were  wont  to  stray. 

She  said  her  name  was  Mary; 

She  lived  she  knew  not  where ; 
And  so  the  forest  maiden 

Grew  with  the  years  more  fair. 
The  child  that  strayed  was  Mary, 

The  brother  told  with  tears, 
So  near  to  home  and  yet  so  far. 

Thro'  all  the  weary  years. 

Oh,  think  the  joy  and  gladness 

That  thrilled  those  hearts,  the  day 
That  Mary  came  to  that  glad  home, 

On  little  Runaway. 
The  Runaway,  the  rippling  stream. 

Among  old  Moosic's  Mountains  gray. 
So  named  from  this  olden  tale, 

"The  Runaway." 


57 


VIOLET  HILL 

York,  Penna. 

Fair  Violet  Hill! 
I  mind  me  still 

Of  days  gone  by,  when  I  was  young ; 
When  joyous  hearts  and  laughing  lips 

Thy  praises  ever  sung. 

In  morning  hours 
Thy  pale  blue  flowers, 

The  first  of  Nature's  offering, 
Would  shyly  glance  with  dewy  eye, 

Their  beauty  proffering. 

Beneath  the  shade 
The  oak-trees  made, 

We  sought  the  pink  arbutus  flower, 
And  by  thy  little,  rippling  brook 

Passed  childhood's  happy  hour. 

No  greater  treat 
For  youthful  feet, 

Than  o'er  thy  mossy  paths  to  tread, 
And  seek  each  bashful  bud  where'er 

It  hid  its  pretty  head. 

No  boon  could  be 
More  sweet  to  me. 

Than  by  thy  side  to  while  aw^ay 
The  dawning  of  the  early  spring, 

The  noon  of  summer's  day. 


58 


Upon  thy  ground 

The  great,  long  mound, 

Tradition  called  an  ancient  grave, 
We  deemed  held  still  beneath  the  sod. 

An  Indian  warrior  brave; 

Who,  if  we  strajTd 
In  twilight  shade 

Within  thy  dark'ning,  lonely  wood, 
Springing  from  his  unquiet  bed. 

Would  haunt  our  homeward  road. 

With  awe  around 
That  grassy  mound. 

We  lingered  with  abated  breath. 
There  hung  a  fearsome  dread  around 

The  mystery  of  death. 

The  fading  light 
Brought  sheer  affright 

Of  some  impending,  dreadful  doom; 
With  quickened  foot  we  raced  the  path 

That  led  us  safely  home. 

Fair  Violet  Hill! 
Remembered  still. 

When  in  strange  lands  my  life  work  lay; 
I  dreamed  of  thy  sweet,  op'ning  flowers. 

Whene'er  came  smiling  May. 

A  score  of  years 
Of  hopes  and  fears 

I  passed  in  distant  scenes  away; 
Then  sought  again  the  olden  home, — 

My  hair  was  tinged  with  gray. 


59 


A  friend  and  I 
Were  riding  by, 

Where  fertile  fields  were  fair  to  see ; 
She  smiling  pointed  out  the  path 

Toward  Violet  Hill,  to  me. 

All  changed  to  me ! 
No  grove  I  see. 

No  oak  trees  growing  brave  and  tall. 
A  grassy  knoll,  a  walled-in  spring, 

No  memories  recall. 

The  children  free 
From  school,  to  me 

Oft  tell  of  pleasant  hours  they  pass 
At  Violet  Hill,  where  smiling  still 

Spring  blossoms  in  the  grass. 

I  cannot  stray 
The  olden  way 

Their  eager  footsteps  gladly  trace; 
To  me  the  dear  loved  spot  would  wear 

A  dead  and  silent  face. 

I'd  rather  still 
Oh!  Violet  Hill! 

Recall  the  youthful  bloom  and  pride, 
That  placed  thee  in  fair  Memory's  hall, 

An  image  glorified. 


60 


DEAD  TREES  OF  MUDDY  CREEK 

A  swift  flowing  stream 

By  its  green  banks  raced  by. 

Above  its  bright  waters  the  blue  beaming  sky, 

Sent  down  its  bright  sunshine, 

Its  warm,  sunny  glow, 

To  the  depths  that  reflected  its  passion  below. 

The  hillsides  were  green 

With  the  beauty  of  May. 

The  woods  with  the  music  of  songsters  was  gay. 

Life  waking  to   gladness, 

To  music  and  light, 

Was  everywhere  sunny  and  winsome,  and  bright. 

But  out   in   the  midst 

Of  the  swift  flowing  stream. 

An  islet  of  low,  sandy  gravel  is  seen. 

Upon   it  are  standing 

Tall  trees,  side  by  side. 

Bereft  of  their  beauty,  they  slowly  had  died. 

While  their  brethren  were  growing 
So   stately   and    fair, 
They  drooped  their  torn  branches 
In  sullen  despair. 
Now  a  dark  blot  they  stand 
On  the  bright,  sylvan  scene, 
Grim,   gaunt,   and   bare,   while   their  brothers  are 
green. 

When  the  desolate  winter 
Had  thrown  its  cold  chains 

Over   mountains   and    streamlets,    o'er   rivers   and 
plains, 

6i 


The   snow    fell   In   masses; 
The  ice  gathered  high 

On  the  face  of  the  stream,  where  the  steep  banks 
drew  nigh. 

When  the  sunshine  grew  warmer, 

The  stream  struggled  long 

To  cast  off  its  burden,  so  heavy  and  strong. 

And  the  mountain  snows  melting, 

Washed  down  in  their  surge. 

The  ice  that  lay  piled  in  the  dangerous  gorge. 

It  rushed  o'er  the  islet, 

And   stripped   every  tree 

Of  its  bark  and  its  branches.     A  dead  memory — 

They  stand  in  the  summer — 

Of   beauty   and   life. 

That  perished  amid  the  fierce  elements'  strife. 

Thus  often  we  see  some  desolate  heart, 

From  hope  and  from  happiness  set  far  apart. 

Swept  by  destruction, 

When  passion  rushed  by. 

Its  love  and  its  beauty  in  ruins  doth  lie. 

The  burden  of  sorrow 

Crushed  down  overhead. 

And    it   stands   in   the   stream 
Of  Eternity — dead. 


62 


WASHINGTON 

Feb.  22. 

This  day  where'er  America's 
Free  children  wander  thro'  the  world, 
Where'er  o'er  land,  or  stream,  or  sea, 
Her  star-bright  banner  is  unfurled. 
One  thought  fills  every  throbbing  heart, 
One  name  is  heard  on  every  tongue; 
Emotions  patriotic  rise, 
And   patriotic  hymns  are  sung. 
Wherever  Liberty  abides, 
However  poor  her  home  may  be. 
Her  sons  of  every  rank  and  clime 
Make  this  a  nation's  jubilee. 

With  retrospection's  magic  power, 
From  old  Virginia's  sacred  soil, 
Evoke  the  ghosts  of  buried  years, 
Westmoreland's  rising  youthful  hopes. 
Mount  Vernon's  later  funeral  tears; 
Recall  the  shades  of  patriots  slain 
On  every  bloody  battleground ; 
The  forms  that  vanished  in  the  smoke 
Of  clouds  that  over  Trenton  broke, 
Whose  heavy  booming  sound  awoke 
Echoes  that  thrilled  the  world  around ; 
Like  ripples,  widening  as  they  go, 
Across  the  current's  rippling  flow. 

Rising  superior  to  them  all. 

Behold  the  Nation's  sentinel ! 

Where  Braddock's  soldiers  fought  and  fell 

He  braved  the  red  man's  steady  aim ; 


63 


At  Princeton  and  at  Monmouth  too, 
Amid  the  cannon's  flashing  flame, 
We  see  his  form  undaunted  stand. 
Like  some  strong  fortress,  grim  and  grand, 
His  trust  in  God's  o'er-ruling  hand. 
And  when  amid  the  want  and  care 
Of  Valley  Forge,  he  knelt  in  prayer, 
We  know  that  noble,  Christian,  brave, 
God  destined  him  this  land  to  save. 
He  rose,  a  star  to  lead  the  way 
Where'er  oppression's  shadow  fell; 
With  wisdom,  power,  heaven-given, 
Dissension's  hate  and  wrath  to  quell. 

Along  the  historic  page  of  Time, 
Like  pearls  strung  on  a  golden  chord, 
We  see  the  gleaming  of  his  deeds ; 
The  love  that  shone  in  every  word, 
For  that  dear  country,  which  in  song 
Is  called  "The  Land  of  Washington." 
Oh !  may  we  ever  on  this  day 
Our  grateful  tribute  to  him  pay; 
Our  loyal  wreaths  around  him  cast, 
Who  first  in  war,  and  first  in  peace, 
And  first  in  every  heart  shall  be; 
Whom  children's  children  shall  revere. 
While  life  remains,  or  Liberty. 

As  you  fair  star  we  see  afar, 
Revolving  o'er  its  destined  way, 
Keeps  not  its  beams  alone  to  grace 
The  azure  depths  that  round  it  lay, 
But,  glancing  down  the  eternal  years, 
Flashes  its  arrowy  rays  of  light, 
Far  reaching  thro'  the  endless  space, 
A  beacon  in  the  darkest  night. 

64 


And  tho'  beyond  all  human  ken 
If  that  bright  star  has  ceased  to  shine 
Long  5'ears  agone — its  steady  light 
Still  reaches  us  with  power  divine: 

Like  that  fair  star,  our  Washington, 

Lights  not  alone  our  country's  sky. 

The  radiance  of  his  fame  belongs 

To  universal  Liberty. 

While  live  the  thoughts  of  trials  past, 

While  earth,  or  truth,  or  right  shall  last. 

His  name,  and  fame,  and  memory, 

To  every  freedom-loving  heart 

Shall  prove  a  priceless  legacy. 

Like  that  bright  star,  his  memory 

Shall  pierce  the  mingled  labyrinth 

Of  hopes  and  fears 

That  mark  with  tears. 

The  struggling  of  the  human  race 

From  out  the  depths  of  tyranny, 

The  light  that  shone  his  fame  around, 

The  aims  that  placed  his  name  so  high. 

Shall  flash  across  the  shores  of  time, 

To  brighten  dim  futurity. 

His  birthplace  of  no  clime  shall  be; 

Throughout  all  lands,  in  every  age — 

The  Mecca  of  a  world-wide  hope. 

His  grave  shall  be  earth's  pilgrimage. 


65 


DE  SOTO 

Beside  the  swiftly  flowing  wave 

A  rude  canoe  was  lying; 
The  sunlight  on  the  earth  smiled  down, 

And  soft  the  breeze  was  sighing 
Along  the  river's  wooded  bank, 

Where  one  brave  heart  lay  dying. 

His  comrades  gather  round  his  head 
In  mute  and  mournful  grieving; 

A  last  sad  clasp  and  brief  farewell 
From  their  loved  chief  receiving, 

Who,  in  the  pride  of  life  and  strength. 
This  fair  world  fast  was  leaving. 

When  midnight  shadows,  dim  and  gray, 
On  land  and  wave  were  lying, 

A  rude  canoe  with  heavy  hearts 
Was  o'er  the  waters  flying, 

And  still  the  zephyrs  soft  along 
The  river  banks  were  sighing. 

But  neath  the  pall  of  waters  dark 

A  manly  form  lay  sleeping, 
Unmindful  of  the  bitter  tears 

In  eyes  unused  to  weeping; 
While  stars  in  the  bending  skies  above 

Their  silent  watch  were  keeping. 

'Twas  years  agone,  yet  his  memory 
Still  lingers  round  that  river; 

And  still  the  waves  are  chanting  o'er 
A  dirge  that  ceases  never, 

And  on  its  banks  De  Soto's  name 
Shall  be  remembered  ever. 


66 


ACROSS  THE  BAR 
Savannah,  Ga, 

Outside  the  bar  the  buoy-bell  rings: 
The   breakers  roll   their  lines  of  white, 

On  Tybee's  isle  the  tide  waves  swell, 
And  shines  the  light-house  beacon  bright, 
Far  o'er  the  waters  thro'  the  night. 

Across  the  bar  our  good  ship  rides. 
While  sunlight  shimmers  on  the  sea. 

We  pass  by  Tybee's  sandy  beach. 
With  Carolina  on  our  lee, 
Where  waves  her  proud  palmetto  tree. 

We  pass  historic  walls  that  stood 

To  bar  the  passage  of  a  foe; 
Pulaski's  grim  old  battlements 

Keep  watch  upon  the  river's  flow, 

As  in  the  days  of  long  ago. 

By  shelving  isle,  by  lushy  bank, 
We  sail  low-lying  shores  between. 

With  devious  ways  and  turning  oft 
The  river  winds  its  curves  of  green. 
Where  fair  savannas  grace  the  scene. 

Oh,  river,  flowing  to  the  sea! 
Bringing  thy  tribute  to  its  tide, 

From  uplands  that  far  inland  lie; 
Upon  thy  placid  bosom  glide 
Out-going  ships  to  ocean  wide. 


67 


And  far  without  the  river-bar 

There  come  white  sails  with  eager  wings; 

They  fly  on  the  incoming  tide, 

To  fill  their  breakers  from  thy  springs 
And  still  the  buoy-bell  swings  and  rings. 

Beyond  the  curves  of  emerald  green, 
Savannah's  graceful  spires  arise; 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  robed  in  light. 
She  sits  beneath  her  southern  skies, 
And  o'er  her  head  the  sea-gull  flies. 

Around  her  border  springs  the  pine. 
Magnolias  yield  her  incense  sweet; 

The  live-oak,  with  its  misty  veil. 
Protects  her  from  the  summer  heat; 
Her  sea-isles  sleep  around  her  feet. 

Still  out  across  the  river-bar 

The  waves  bear  dancing  crests  of  white; 

The  buoy-bell  rings;  but  safe  in  port, 
Our  hearts  are  throbbing  with  delight. 
When  fair  Savannah  greets  our  sight. 


68 


SKY  ROCKET  HEIGHTS 

On  high  Sky  Rocket's  brow  to  stand, 
And  gaze  abroad  o'er  all  the  land, 
That  widens  out  on  every  hand. 

Is  "joy  akin  to  pain." 
To  breathe  the  purer,  fresher  air, 
To  see  God's  imprint  everywhere 
Lifts  the  dull  weight  of  earthly  care, 

And  makes  us  free  again. 

From  high  Sky  Rocket  eager  eyes 
Can  see  along  the  southern  skies, 
The  Oregonian  mountains  rise 

O'er  the  horizon's  rim. 
Far,  far  away,  the  silver  peak 
Of  Mt.  Rainier,  plays  hide  and  seek 
With  mists,  that  make  our  vision  weak — 

An  outline  gray  and  dim. 

Against  yon  blue,  the  sun-rays  glow. 
Italian  skies  no  brighter  grow. 
No  deeper  tints  of  blue  bestow  ; 

There  shines  no  brighter  sun. 
No  fleecier  clouds  flit  o'er  the  blue; 
No  scene  more  peaceful  to  the  view — 
Here  Haste  forgets — the  world  is  new  — 

And  life  has  just  begun. 

The  noontide  sunlight  shimmers  down 
On  varying  reaches,  red  and  brown ; 
On  hillsides,  with  their  glittering  crown 

Of  yellow,  rip'ning  grain. 
While  meadow  lands  and  banks  of  green 
Are  in  the  lowlier  canyons  seen, 


69 


Curving  the  rising  hills  atween, 

Toward  the  wid'ning  plain, 
Where  southward  Walla  Walla  lies, 
Resting  beneath  the  sunny  skies; 
While  round  her  blue  the  mountains  rise. 

Guarding  her  fair  domain. 

Moulded  by  some  supernal  hand, 
A  thousand  hills  in  silence  stand. 
Like  carven  billows,  rolling  grand 

Upon  a  tideless  sea. 
And    from    Sky    Rocket's    top-most    height, 
We  upward  look  bej^ond  our  sight. 
To  catch  a  glimmer  of  delight 

From  far  Eternity. 

For  here  the  little  ills  of  life, 

The  hurrying,  worrying,  petty  strife, 

With  which  our  lower  days  are  rife. 

Fade  in  this  higher  air. 
And  from  this  nearer,  earthly  height, 
Subject  to  clouds  and  hours  of  night, 
The  soul  wings  up  on  loftier  flight. 

Dropping  its  robe  of  care. 

To  have  our  feet  with  reverence  shod. 

That  we  may  walk  and  talk  with  God 

On  heights  sublime  where  saints  have  trod — 

Is  "joy  beyond  compare." 
Walla  Walla  County,  Washington. 


70 


THIS  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD  OF  OURS 

Bright  Spring-time  is  coming. 

The  voice  of  the  birds 

In  musical  tones  woo  the  air, 

And  flowers  unfolding 

Amid  their  green  leaves, 

Are  making  the  world  still  more  fair. 

Tis  a  beautiful  world. 

Let  us  look  where  we  will, 

Over  valley,  o'er  meadow  and  plain. 

When  the  bright  sun  is  shining, 

And  Spring-time  is  here. 

Oh,  who  of  this  world  dare  complain! 

It  is  true  that  our  hearts 

May  be  heavy  and  dull. 

Our  lives  full  of  trouble  and  care, — 

Yet   brooding  o'er  sorrows 

Is  making  them  worse — 

So  let  us  get  out  in  the  air. 

Cast  off  thought  for  awhile. 
Or  the  thoughts  that  care  brings. 
And  drink  in  the  breath  of  the  morn. 
Gather  buds  gemmed  with   dew, 
And  the  green,  trailing  vines 
Your  lives  and  your  homes  to  adorn. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  world ; 

But  the  trouble  and  care 

That  darken  the  bright  Spring-time  days, 

Grow  out  of  our  lives, 

Spring  up  in  our  hearts, 

And  lead  us  astray  in  our  ways. 


71 


'Tis  each  moment  of  time 

That  is  wrongfully  spent; 

'Tis  trifles — 'tis  things  left  undone, 

That  darken  the  world  that 

Our  spirits  move  in, 

And  shut  out  the  dear,  blessed  sun. 

Oh,  how  bright  might  our  lives  be! 

Our  hearts,  oh,  how  glad ! 

Did  we  only  resolve  that  we  would, — 

With  the  help  of  our  God, 

His  blessing  upon  us, 

Be  sure  to  do  all  that  we  could — 

To  lighten  the  burden 

Of  others  around  us. 

Speaking  kindly  to  all  that  we  meet. 

'Twill  lessen  our  cares 

To  help  others  bear  theirs, 

And  make  our  own  lives  pure  and  sweet. 


72 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  WIFE 

One  morn  I  chanced  to  while  away 
An  hour  by  the  murmuring  sea, 

And  there  was  told  the  simple  tale, 
Which  I  will  tell  again  to  thee. 

Fair  shone  the  morning  sun  one  day, 
One  morning  toward  the  end  of  Spring, 

When  Harry  sailed  across  the  bay. 
Like  some  sea  bird  w  ith  snowy  wing. 

His  little  craft  sped  from  the  shore 

And  gaily  flew  the  waters  o'er. 

The  day  passed  by  in  household  care, 
My  tasks  were  few  and  soon  were  o'er ; 

And  then  toward  the  even  fair 
I  sought  the  dear  familiar  shore, 

Where  oft  before  at  twilight  gray, 

I  watched  his  boat  come  o'er  the  bay. 

All  day  the  sky  so  bright  had  shone, 
My  heart  was  singing  with  delight; 

For  Harry,  though  a  fishing  gone. 
Was  coming  back  before  the  night. 

At  home,  our  simple  meal  was  spread 

Of  fresh-caught  fish  and  oaten  bread. 

The  shadows  lengthened  by  the  shore. 
The  sun  went  down  in  clouds  of  gold. 

No  white  sail  skimmed  the  waters  o'er. 
The  evening  air  grew  still  and  cold, 

And  darker  shades  athwart  the  sky 

Gave  tokens  of  a  tempest  nigh. 


73 


Alone  upon  the  sandy  beach, 

My  heart  was  sore  and  wild  with  fear ; 
Far  out  across  wild  ocean's  reach, 

I  saw  no  sail  nor  boat  appear. 
But  darker  yet  the  storm-clouds  gather. 
Shutting  out  sea  and  sky  together. 

On  bended  knee  to  God  on  high, 

The  mighty  Ruler  of  the  sea, 
I  prayed  aloud  with  streaming  eye. 

To  bring  him  safely  back  to  me. 
Amid  the  darkness  and  the  rain, 
Weeping,  I  prayed — and  not  in  vain. 

The  winds  had  ceased  their  stormy  cries. 
The  long  night  hours  wore  slowly  on. 

Upon  the  sands  with  straining  eyes, 
With  hope  and  reason  almost  gone — 

I  watched  the  tide  waves  rising  slow, 

With  fitful  and  uncertain  flow. 

I  heard  in  fierce  and  wild  unrest. 
Outside,  the  sullen  breakers  roar. 

I  saw  the  waves  with  foaming  crest 
Strike  high  against  yon  rocky  shore. 

Helpless,  I  knelt  beside  the  sea, 

Helpless,  alone,  in  misery. 

The  wind  came  now  in  lengthened  swell. 

The  pale  moon  showed  above  the  cloud. 
I  heard  the  distant  mid-night  bell; 

In  one  swift  prayer  my  head  was  bowed. 
For  faintly  came  a  far  halloo. 
In  tones  whose  accents  well  I  knew. 


74 


Out  in  the  bay  not  half  a  mile, 

The  lighthouse  lantern  gleaming  shone 

Upon  yon  low  and  barren  isle. 

With  white  sail  torn  and  rudder  gone, 

He  scarce  had  gained  its  shelving  side, 

Just  as  his  boat  sank  in  the  tide. 

But  yet  the  danger  was  not  o'er. 

The  isle  lay  low  upon  the  sea. 
The  tide  was  creeping  up  the  shore, 

An  hour  more  of  misery — 
The  waves  would  sweep  his  hold  away, 
And  he  might  drown  within  the  bay. 

I  oft  had  rowed  a  boat  before. 

The  lighthouse  gleam  shone  far  and  wide. 
With  steady  stroke  I  pulled  from  shore, 

If  death  or  danger  should  betide 
I  recked  but  little — what  w^as  life 
If  Harry  died — to  me,  his  wife! 

I  saw  the  waves  come  rushing  in. 

My  little  boat  rode  o'er  the  flood. 
And  when  my  hope  and  strength  seemed  gone, 

By  Harry's  side,  I  breathless  stood. 
And  just  in  time — a  short  delay 
Had  swept  him  out  into  the  bay. 

Swiftly  we  sped  back  o'er  the  sea, 

Upon  the  rolling  billow's  foam. 
With  thankful  hearts  we  bent  the  knee. 

To  Him,  who  brought  us  safely  home. 
When  morning  dawned  the  sands  lay  strewn, 
With  fragments  of  the  midnight  ruin. 


75 


Ah,  Lady!  may  you  never  know 
Such  daily  struggle  for  your  bread; 

The  dangers  fishers  undergo, 

With  waves  below  and  storms  o'er  head. 

May  ne'er  your  weary  eyes  o'erflow 

With  tears  like  fishers'  wives  must  shed. 

And  yet  content  and  blithe  are  we. 
Tho'  dwellers  by  the  changing  sea. 


76 


CHRISTMAS  IN  NORWAY 

There  is  a  land,  a  far-off  land, 

Across  the  ocean's  foam, 
Where  Christmas-tide  makes  children  glad. 

As  children  here  at  home. 

On  the  rock-bound  coast  of  Norway, 

The  waves  dash  noisily; 
And  the  sandy  shores  of  SvYeden 

Outline  the  Baltic  Sea. 

There  where  the  Christ-child's  coming 

Brings  gladness  in  its  train, 
The  little  birds  can  gather 

Their  Christmas  feast  of  grain. 

The  golden  sheaves  uplifted 

High  o'er  each  barn  and  home. 

Are  thronged  with  feathered  songsters. 
Who  hither  quickly  come. 

From  distant  cote  and  tree-top, 

From  the  o'erhanging  eaves, 
From  every  nook  and  cranny 

They  flutter  to  the  sheaves. 

Within  the  farmer's  cottage, 
Thro'  the  frosty  window-pane, 

Looked  out  the  little  Deena 
At  the  birds  among  the  grain. 

"Come  Karl,"  she  called  her  brother, 
"Hear  how  the  glad  birds  sing! 

They  know  the  holy  Christmas 
Must  something  for  them  bring. 

77 


"For  did  not  our  dear  Master, 

The  dear  and  holy  Child, 
Who  loved  all  little  children, 

And  even  on  them  smiled. 

"Did  He  not  say  the  sparrows 

Are  in  our  Father's  care? 
So  now  when  we  have  Christmas, 

The  birds  our  joy  must  share." 

Then  little  Karl  looked  gravely 

Out  thro'  the  frosty  pane, 
And  heard  the  joyous  twitter 

Among  the  golden  grain, 

And  said  "If  the  blessed  Christ-child 
Makes  little  birds  His  care. 

When  I  own  farm  or  grain  fields, 
Then  I  must  do  my  share. 

"The  birds  shall  come  each  morning 
And  find  fresh  sheaves  of  grain. 

And  twitter  to  each  other 

"Tis  Christmas  come  again.'  " 

Dear  Children,  seek  the  needy. 
Wherever  they  may  roam, 

And  fill  some  heart  with  sunshine, 
Like  that  within  your  home. 

Kind  words  of  heart-felt  greeting, 

A  word,  a  gift,  a  smile, 
With  kindly  intent  proffered. 

May  many  a  grief  beguile. 


78 


And  the  Christ-child  at  His  coming 

Shall  say,  so  tenderly, 
"Giving  so  freely,  gladly. 

Ye  gave  it  unto  Me." 


79 


UPWARD! 

Among  the  woodland  windings 
Sounds  a  triumphant  strain, 

I  strive  to  catch  the  numbers 
Yet  ever  strive  in  vain. 

Has  the  song  a  hidden  meaning 
No  mortal  can  attain? 

Tho'  the  sweet  singer  vanish 
Ere  we  can  learn  his  song, 

The  memory  of  the  music 
Will  linger  with  us  long; 

And  in  some  hour  when  sore  beset, 
May  make  us  brave  and  strong. 

Upon  the  shelving  hillside 

The  fairest  laurels  blow. 
Coward  hearts  should  fear  to  climb 

From  the  green  vale  below. 
If  any  dare,  why  may  not  I  ? 

For  fearless  hearts  they  grow. 

Across  the  stream  we  venture. 

To  where  the  lilies  lie 
Upon  their  broad  green  leaves  asleep, 

Emblems  of  purity. 
If  deeper  grows  the  shallow  bed, 

Am  I  afraid  to  try? 

The  laurel  blooms  when  gathered 
May  wreathe  another  head. 

The  lilies'  beauty  gladden 
Some  sadder  heart  instead ; 

Is  it  not  bliss  on  other  lives 
Such  happiness  to  shed? 

80 


If  ever  in  the  valley 

Contented  we  remain, 
The  laurel  buds  may  blossom 

Upon  the  hills  in  vain  ; 
And  the  heart  may  miss  the  meaning 

Hid  in  the  singer's  strain. 

We  needs  must  struggle  bravely 
If  upward  paths  we  tread. 

Sometimes  we  find  the  laurels 
Have  turned  to  thorns  instead, 

Yet  thro'  the  devious  turnings 
We  still  are  upward  led. 

If  we  rest,  content  to  grovel 

In  lowliness  of  life; 
With  no  thought  beyond  the  struggle 

That  marks  earth's  dreary-  strife. 
We  ne'er  can  climb  the  hillside 

Of  a  higher,  nobler  life. 

No  time  for  me  for  dreaming 
The  precious  hours  away, 

Waiting  the  gifts  of  fortune 

Till  closed  be  earth's  brief  day. 

Be  mine  the  spirit  daring 
To  try  the  upward  way. 


8i 


BRIGHT  MOUNTAIN  STREAM 

Bright  mountain  stream! 
Thou  seekest  sunny  places, 

Where  the  light  of  heaven  falls 
On  thy  woodland  graces. 

Hiding  in  thy  shadowed  depths 
Speckled   trout   are  lying; 

O'er  thy  gliding  ripples  bright 
Summer  leaves  are  flying. 

Bright  mountain  stream! 
Thro'  the  forest  straying, 

Shining  bright  the  clear  sunlight, 
With  thy  wavelets  playing; 

Thro'  the  tangled  meadow-grass, 
By  the  sweet-leaved  clover, 

Where  the  ferns  and  fairies  dwell 
In  their  forest  cover; 

O'er  thy  rocky,  shelving  bed, 
In  thy  wild  commotion, 

Ever  striving,  rushing  on 
Toward  the  distant  ocean. 

Bright  mountain  stream! 
Why  this  swift  endeavor? 

Why  from  thy  sequestered  home 
Dost  thou  hasten  ever? 

Doth  the  echoing  voices  call 
From  the  shells  of  ocean? 

Doth  the  sea's  deep,  distant  roar 
Rouse  thee  thus  to  motion  ? 


82 


Bright  mountain  stream! 
Beyond  this  present  hour 

Lies  the  ocean  of  our  lives, 
Engirt  with  sun  and  shower. 

From  our  sheltered  infancy 
Restless  streams  are  flowing; 

We  upon  the  rushing  waves 
Cannot  retard  our  going. 

Bright  mountain  stream! 
When  thy  course  is  over, 

When  drawn  up  in  ether  blue, 
Thou  returnest  in  shower. 

Blessings  bringing  in  thy  train — 
Earth  doth  welcome  thee  again — 

Thou  hast  not  lived  thy  life  in  vain. 
Bright   mountain   stream, 

How  high  thine  aim ! 

Bright  mountain  stream ! 
May  we  with  swift  endeavor, 

Down  drifting  to  eternity. 
Neglect  our  duties  never. 

And  when  engulfed  amid  its  waves — 
From  shells  of  ocean  calling, 

May  words  of  ours  have  power  to  keep 
Some  fainting  soul  from  falling. 


83 


FIRELIGHT  DREAMINGS 

In  the  gloaming  of  the  evening, 

When  the  fire  burns  faint  and  low; 

And  the  fast-decaying  embers 
Cast  a  faint  and  fitful  glow, 

Then  I  love  to  sit  and  ponder 
O'er  the  scenes  of  long  ago. 

Shadows  rising,  shadows  falling, 

Take  the  form  of  other  days. 
Flitting  round  us  in  the  darkness 

Bright  eyes  gleam  amid  the  haze. 
And  fair  visions  of  loved  faces 

Greet  again  our  wondering  gaze. 

While  thus  musing,  by  us  passing, 

Silently  the  hours  go  by; 
But  our  thoughts  are  backward  turning, 

And  we  heed  not  as  they  fly. 
Hopes,  long  buried,  keep  uprising 

From  the  graves  wherein  they  lie. 

Backward  turning  o'er  the  pathway 

Trodden  by  our  later  years. 
Meeting  many  a  trace  and  foot-print, 

Strewn  with  flowers,  or  marked  by  fears ; 
Many  a  blossom  bright  tints  showing. 

Many  drenched  by  bitter  tears: 

Onward  pressing,  still  retracing 

Step  by  step,  the  sunny  ways 
Leading  down  the  grassy  hillside 

Of  our  happy,  spring-time  days, 
Ere  our  feet  had  grown  bewildered 

Wandering  thro'  earth's  devious  maze — 

84 


Come  we  to  the  smiling  meadows, 
Where  in  infancy  we  strayed ; 

Where  we  tried  to  catch  the  sunbeams, 
Or  bright-blossomed  garlands  made; 

Or  along  the  shallow  borders 
Of  life's  streamlet  fearless  played. 

But  the  darkness,  denser  growing. 
Drapes  the  shadows  on  the  wall ; 

And  the  embers,  dropping  slowly, 
Rouse  us  wnth  their  muffled  fall, 

And  from  out  the  world  of  fancies 
All  our  wandering  thoughts  recall. 

Life  has  shadows,  for  the  sunlight 
Shines  not  every  day  the  same ; 

Bright  from  out  the  shades  before  us 
May  burst  forth  love's  brilliant  flame. 

And  life's  sunset  be  the  op'ning 

Of  the  gates  to  "Hame,  sweet  Hame." 


85 


AMID  THE  STORM 

Amid  the  darkness  and  the  storm, 
The  night  is  passing  slowly  on, 

A  wild,  and  wierd,  and  shrouded  form, 
With   every   trace  of   beauty   gone. 

From  out  the  chambers  of  the  North 
The  fierce  w^inds  on  their  mission  roam, 

O'er  mount  and  meadow,  breaking  forth 
In   wilder   fury   as  they  come. 

All  the  long  hours  dark  and  drear, 
Adown  the  roof  the  marching  rain 

Is  sounding  in  my  strained  ear 
[vike  heavy  tread  of  armed  men. 

The  tread  of  heavy,  marching  men — 

Tramp!  tramp!  tramp!  the  hours  drag  by. 

And  loud,  and  fierce,  and  wild  again. 
The  storm  shouts  out  its  battle-cry, 

Nature's   strong   forces   marshaled   stand; 

The  earth,  the  air,  the  sky,  the  sea. 
Are   but    fulfilling    God's   command. 

How  poor,  and  weak,  and  puny — we! 

O'er  the  wild  reach  of  ocean  waves 

We  know  the  ships  storm-tossed  must  go. 

Perchance  ere  morn  old  ocean's  caves 
Will  hold   them   fathoms  deep  below. 

Oh,  night  so  wild!     Oh,  stormy  night! 

When  shall  we  see  the  morning  dawn? 
When  shall  hope  flash  again  like  light 

Into  our  faces,  tired  and  wan? 


86 


Shall  our  barques,  beaten  by  the  storm, 
Again   float  from   the  Arctic  seas, 

And  find  a  haven,  safe  and  warm, 
Amid  luxuriant   isles  of   ease? 

Shall  nevermore  from  off  our  brain 
The  memory  of  the  storm  pass  by? 

Must  evermore  the  marching  rain 
Mingle  with  every  song  or  sigh? 

Ah,  have  we  then  so  little  faith. 
We  cannot  trust  His  guiding  will, 

Who  to  the  winds  and  waters  saith, 
Storm-tossed  and  driven, 

"Peace!    Be  still!" 


87 


TO  COMMUNION  WITH  NATURE 

'Tis  balmy  summer-time,  when  bird  and  bee 
On  fluttering  wing  rise  up  to  heaven. 
The  queenly  rose  and  modest  daisy  bloom, 
And  Nature  thrills  us  with  her  loveliness. 
Afar,  beneath  the  cool  and  quiet  shade 
Of  those  old  trees,  whose  arms  out-stretched  seem 
To  heaven's  blue  face,  invoking  blessings  down, 
Upon  the  smiling  fields,  and  meadows  green 
That  nestle  at  their  feet — answering  back 
Low-chanted  anthems  to  the  brook's  sweet  song — 
To  those  old  trees  I  fain  would  fly  to  rest 
Upon  the  mossy  turf.     There  to  commune 
In  singleness  of  heart  with  Nature's  self: 
To  read  on  her  fair  pages  all  of  life — 
Its  hopes,  its  griefs,  its  joys,  its  pains,  its  aims. 
And  how  we  fail  to  make  it  good  and  wise. 
The  petty  cares  that  throng  within  our  homes; 
The  sullen  discontent,  the  angry  word  ; 
The  frowning  look,  the  banished  smile,  and  all 
The  nameless  things — the  thorns  around  the  rose, 
That  pierce  us  to  the  heart — are  shattered  chords, 
Creating  discord  on  the  harp  of  life. 
Ah  me!  how  weary  and  how  faint  at  times 
The  spirit  scarce  can  battle  with  its  foes! 
Arm  me !    Thou  over  All !  with  armor  proof 
Against  the  fierce  assaults  of  sinfulness, 
With  patience,  penitence,  hope,  faith  and  love, 
That  I  may  bless  the  glorious  summer-time; 
That  like  the  grateful  flowers  that  daily  give 
Their  voiceless  praises  to  the  waiting  air. 
My  life  may  not  be  wasted — but  fore'er 
Within  my  narrow  sphere,  be  fragrant  still 
With  praise  to  Thee  above.     Cares  fly  away. 
Life  smiles  on  everything  this  happy  hour. 
And  with  the  blessings  of  the  ones  I  love, 
I  am  indeed  most  blessed. 

88 


A  FANTASIE 

The  waves  have  moaned  themselves  to  sleep, 

And  all  the  beings  fair, 
Who  roam  the  halls  of  ocean  deep 

Now  rest  in  silence  there. 

One  vast  expanse,  where  wave  on  wave, 

Fills  up  the  boundless  space; 
There  many  a  spirit,  pure  and  brave, 

Has  sought  a  dwelling-place. 

Some,  where  the  coral  reefs  rise  high 

O'er  amber-colored  plains; 
Some  in  the  caves  where  zephyrs  sigh, 

And  summer  never  wanes. 

We  dream  of  many  a  crew  and  barque. 

Lost  'neath  the  ocean  foam — 
In  sea-green  graves,  all  dim  and  dark, 

Dead  to  their  friends  and  home. 

But  life  blooms  bright  beyond  our  ken. 

Where  fair  sea-flowers  blow. 
And  fond  hearts  beat  to  love  again, 

And  hopes  to  fullness  grow. 

Then  fear  no  more  the  sounding  sea; 

No  mournful  dead  lie  there. 
They  rove  their  wave-girt  halls  as  free 

As  birds  in  upper  air. 

They  dwell  'mong  sparkling  treasures  bright; 

Float  lightly  on  the  foam ; 
And  call  lone  watchers  of  the  night 

Through  ocean's  caves  to  roam. 

89 


The  dreamer  lists  at  midnight  hour, 
When  witching  thought  roves  free, 

And  coerced  by  their  mystic  power, 
Leaps  in  the  yielding  sea. 

And  there  in  realms  where  youth  ne'er  wanes. 

Nor  pleasure  ever  pales, 
His  days  pass  by  in  rapt  delight — 

In  ocean's  moss-clad  vales. 


90 


YON  STREAM  AND  MILL 

The  present  with  its  hopes  and  fears 

Has   vanished    from   my   dreaming   mind, 
Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  falling  tears, 

I  leave  them  all  far,  far  behind. 
Forgetting  all  the  present  hours. 

My  thoughts  have  wandered  to  the  past. 
Those  days  of  youth  and  birds  and  flowers, 

That  flew  away,  aye,  all  too  fast. 

I  mind  me  well  the  halcyon  days 

Of  summer,  when  I  was  a  child. 
When  roving  thro'  the  forest  ways, 

I,  like  the  birds,  was  free  and  wild. 
Methinks  I   hear  the  murmur  sweet 

Of  that  bright  stream  where  oft  I  strayed. 
And  list  again  the  clacking  beat 

Of  the  old  mill  wherein  I  played. 

What  matters  it  to  me  that  old 

And  worn,   that  time-stained  mill  doth  seem. 
The  spider  webs  like  threads  of  gold 

To  my  still  partial  fancy  gleam. 
The  present  with  its  smiles  and  tears 

Into   the   future   seems   beguiled; 
Forgetting  all  the  lapse  of  years, 

I  know  myself — again  a  child. 

And  gazing  on  the  crystal  stream, 

I  drop  all  years  and  sorrow  now. 
No  sweeter  draught  the  world  e'er  gave 

To  cool  my  lips  or  bathe  my  brow. 
The  mill-wheel  in  its  ceaseless  round, 

Throwing  the  foam  like  feathery  snow, 
Still  measures  with  its  rhythmic  sound 
The  joyous  hours  of  long  ago. 

91 


Yon  stream  and  mill!   Yon  stream  and  mill! 

Across  the  bridge  of  time  ye  come, 
And  with  your  murmuring  voices  still 

Recall  my  wandering  spirit  home. 
Ye  sing  a  song  so  bright  and  fair, 

Of  other  scenes  and  hours  dear; 
Ye  free  the  heart  from  grief  and  care. 

Yet  fill  the  eye  with  memory's  tear. 


92 


WHAT  BRINGETH  THE  DAY? 

Heart  joyous  and  free, 
What  bringeth  the  day  to  thee? 
Thy  hours  have  never  been  dark; 
Thou  knowst  no  grief  nor  care; 
When  the  night's  dim  shadows  fly, 
Will  the  coming  day  be  fair? 
Will  the  future  bring  pleasure 
That  life  can  never  measure; 
And  sunshine  bright  to  crow^n  thee 
With  flowery  garlands  rare? 
What  more  can  the  day  bring  thee? 

Heart  weary  and  worn, 
What  bringeth  the  day  to  thee? 
Earth's  burdens  have  made  thee  sad, 
Thy  bosom  weighted  with  pain; 
When  the  morning  hours  awake, 
Will  the  day  bring  grief  again? 
Shall  the  absence  of  gladness 
Make  still  deeper  thy  sadness; 
Will  daylight  cruel  wound  thee. 
And  heavier  forge  thy  chain  ? 
What  more  will  the  day  bring  thee  ? 

Heart  patient  and  strong. 
What  bringeth  each  day  to  thee? 
Thro'  the  ever-changing  years. 
Will  each  trouble  lurking  wait 
To  assail  thy  courage  high ; 
Will  the  days  bring  love  or  hate ! 
Seest  thou  the  silver  lining 
Beneath  the  cloud-folds  shining? 
For  life  with  shine  and  shadow 
Must  forever  alternate; 
What  more  can  the  day  bring  thee  ? 

93 


SWEET  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Ring  out,  sweet  voices  of  the  night! 

The  winds  will  waft  the  sounds  away, 
And  list'ners  on  yon  mountain  height 

Shall  pause  to  hearken  to  the  lay. 
The  echoes  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Repeat  the  sweet  and  plaintive  notes, 
Till  soft  and  faint  the  dying  strain 

No  longer  backward  to  us  floats. 
Sing  soft  and  sweet  the  songs  of  home 

For  those  who  wander  far  away. 
Where'er  the  dear  ones  reckless  roam, 

Oh,  Echo! — send  thy  tend'rest  lay. 

Sweet  voices  of  the  brooding  night. 

Oh,  seek  those  wanderers  far  away ; 
Who  far  from  friends  and  home's  delight, 

May  in  forbidden  pathways  stray. 
Where'er  they  go — in  distant  lands — 

O'er  desert  v/astes — in  crowded  marts — 
May  still  the  tender  thoughts  of  home 

Have  power  to  touch  their  wayward  hearts. 
So  sing,  sweet  voices  of  the  night. 

That  echoes  floating  o'er  the  sea. 
May  woo  those  restless  spirits  back 

By  magic  of  thy  melody. 


94 


THE  SPRING-TIME  OF  THE  SOUL 

When  the  red   breast  robins  sing, 
When  the  blue-bird's  on  the  wing, 

And  heaven  overhead  is  bright  and  clear; 
In  the  bright,  bright  sunshine 
Of  the  bonny,  bonny  Spring, 

We  forget  that  the  winter  has  been  drear. 

Hearts  are  beating,  beating  time 
To  the  happy,  pulsing  rhyme, 

That  is  throbbing  thro'  the  warm  and  balmy  air. 
The  flowers  ring  their  chimes 
To   the   sweet   unspoken   rhymes, 

That  turn  to  joy,  our  discontent  and  care. 

From  hidden  springs  upwelling. 
The  wave  of  life  is  swelling 

In  a  flood  of  joy,  tumultuous  and  bright. 
There  comes  upon  us  stealing 
A  sense  of  rapturous  feeling 

A  fulness  of  contentment,  life  and  light. 

Oh !  what  pleasures,  bonny  Spring, 
Could  the  years  unto  us  bring. 

If  no  season  fair  as  thine  blessed  the  earth? 
Polar  regions  lone  and  cold, 
Windy  that  blow  across  the  wold. 

Blighting  every  blossom  at  its  birth. 

Welcome,   bonny,   bonny  Spring! 
In  your  gentle  train  you  bring 

Visions  of  the  future,  fantasies  so  rare, 
We  long  to   raise  our  voices, 
Till  every  heart  rejoices. 

In  welcoming  a  visitant  so  fair. 


95 


Oh,  heart,  enveiled   in  sorrow! 
There  lies  a  bright  to-morrow, 

Beyond  the  clouds  that  now  so  threatening  roll. 
See  in  the  bright  hereafter, 
There  comes  a  blessed  season, 

The  bonny,  bonny  Springtime  of  the  soul. 


96 


MARCH 

March  brings  wild  and  stormj'  weather, 
Rain  and  wind  and  wave  together. 

All  such  daj's  are  dreary. 
Winter  still  is  lurking  near. 
And  his  sudden  shafts  we  fear; 

Of  his  presence  weary. 

March  comes  armed  to  the  battle. 
All  his  forces  round  him  rattle, 

Firm,  alert,  and  steady. 
And  they  rush  into  the  fray 
Driving  Winter  far  away. 

March  is  rough  and  ready. 

Martial  comes  he  o'er  the  mountains; 
Stirs  the  waters  of  the  fountains ; 

Breaks  their  bonds  asunder: 
Stamps  across  the  frozen  field, 
Makes  its  stubborn  surface  yield. 

While  we  watch  and  wonder. 

Loud  and  bois'trous  is  his  singing. 
To  his  song  the  woods  are  ringing; 

Sleeping  trees  awaken: 
Wave  their  leafless  branches  high 
To  the  dark  and  stormy  sky — 

By  the  tumult  shaken. 

Like  a  bugle  loudly  calling; 
Like  a  tender  love-note  falling; 

March  has  many  voices. 
To  the  southern  lands  away, 
Float  the  echoes  every  day, 

And  the  Spring  rejoices; 

97 


Hiding  in  her  distant  bowers, 
With  her  waiting  birds  and  flowers, 

Listening  for  the  token. 
Soon  they  wing  their  homeward  flight 
To  our  northern  hill-tops  bright. 

Winter's  reign  is  broken. 

Now  thy  warfare,  March,  is  ended. 
Gentle  Spring  thou  hast  befriended — 

Driven  her  foes  astray. 
Give  a  greeting  to  thy  sister 
April,  and  when  thou  hast  kissed  her, 

Speed  upon  thy  way. 


98 


APRIL  AND  MAY 

O'er  the  hillsides, 

O'er  the  prairies, 
Comes  a  trio  of  sweet  fairies — • 
Spring — with  both  her  maids  of  honor- 
Fickle    April — beauteous    May; 
Each  with  varied  garments  on  her, 
Robed  as  for  a  holiday. 

And  the  blossoms 

Are  up  springing, 
Orchard  trees  in  rhythm  swinging, 
Old  Dame  Earth  is  growing  younger. 
Putting  on  a  dress  so  gay. 
Touching  up  her  cheeks  with  color. 
Primping  for  a  holiday. 

Ah,  poor  maiden! 

With    grief   laden, 
April  has  lost  all  her  laughter — 
Who  has  treated  her  so  cruel? — 
They  shall  soon  their  conduct  rue. 
"You    are   only   April's   fool — " 
Mocking  mouth   makes   she   at  you. 

Why  so  changeful. 

Naughty  April? 
Art  thou  pert  and  pouting  still? 
Well,  I  know  a  maid  that's  smiling; 
She  is  gentle,  she  is  gay, 
And  there  is  no  false  beguiling, 
In  thy  lovely  sister.  May. 


99 


Crowned  with  sunshine, 
Bright  with   flowers, 
Round  her  circle  all  the  hours, 
Tribute  to  her  beauty  paying. 
April  need  no  longer  stay. 
All  the  world  is  going  Maying- 
Dame  Earth  holds  high  holiday. 


100 


JUNE 

June  comes  with  starry  blossoms  crowned, 
With  fair  hand-maidens  thronging  round ; 
And  as  her  footsteps  touch  the  hills 
They  wake  the  voices  of  the  rills. 

She  paints  the  plains  with  varying  light, 
And  waving  shadows,  warm  and  bright. 
She  floats  throughout  the  azure  air, 
Shedding  soft  incense  everywhere. 

The  busy  bee  with  drowsy  hum, 
Bears  heavy  burdens  slowly  home. 
The  butterflies  flit  to  and  fro 
O'er  swampy  spots  where  mosses  grow. 

The  warm,  warm  sunshine  softly  falls 
On  terraced  walks  and  garden  walls, 
Where  hang  the  roses,  red  and  fair, 
Scenting  with  fragrance  all  the  air. 

They  bloom  their  happy,  careless  hour, 
To  fall  a  petaled,  noiseless  shower. 
A  part  of  June's  sweet  mission  bright 
Thrilling  our  hearts  with  pure  delight. 


lOI 


SUMMER 

I  see  the  springing  grasses  at  my  feet, 

The  daisies  nestling  in  their  leafy  bed. 

I  see  the  halo  round  the  Summer's  head, 

And  hear  her  singing,  sounding  low  and  sweet. 

Their  flowery  garments  all  the  hillsides  spread 
Where'er  her  dancing  footsteps  touch  the  ground. 
The  rosy  sunshine  of  the  east  is  wound 
In  folds  of  beauty  her  lithe  form  around; 
And  trailing  branches 

Of  the  sweet  wild  rose, 

Circle  her  pathway, 

Whereso'er  she  goes. 

She  comes  from  Southern  lands  where  spices  rare. 
With   fragrant  perfume  scent  the  warmer  air. 
She  brings  the  passion  of  the  torrid  zone. 
Flinging  its  fierce  desire  to  wake  our  own. 
And  from  those  bow'rs  where  warmer  flowers  grow. 
And   sun-kissed   blossoms  lift   their  eyes  aglow. 
She  steals  the  glory  of  their  brilliant  sheen 
To  deck  our  smiling  vales  and  meadows  green. 

On  airy  pinions  thro'  the  lambent  air 
She  flits  in  fleecy  veilings  soft  and  fair. 
Shedding  the  brightness  of  her  airy  grace, 
Like  benedictions,  on  each  barren  place 
Where  wrathful  winter  threw  his  scepter  down, 
And  left  the  impress  of  his  fallen  crown. 
We  meet  her  starry  eyes  where'er  we  turn, 
And  'neath  their  magic  gaze  our  bosoms  burn. 

We  bless  her  presence  in  our  smiling  land ; 
We  love  the  clasping  of  her  friendly  hand. 
That  leads  us  gently  o'er  the  weary  way, 
And  with  fruition  crowns  each  passing  day. 

102 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

When  Winter  folds  his  mantle  white, 
And  stalks  awa}^  to  northern  skies; 

When  April  comes  from  southern  climes, 
With  smiling  face  and  sunny  eyes — 

How  wakes  the  world  to  visions  bright! 

The  violet  in  its  leafy  home. 

Entrances  us  with  sweet  surprise. 

Arbutus  sweet,  beneath  our  feet, 

And  daisies  with  their  patient  eyes. 

Tell  us  that  Spring  again  has  come. 

What  heart  but  beats  in  unison, — 
When  nature  thus  doth  wake  again, 

Bringing  her  treasures,  fair  and  sweet, 
Into  the  homes  and  hearts  of  men — 

With  the  great  work  she  hath  begun. 

How  throbs  with  warmth  the  summer  day. 
When  royal  sunshine  smiles  on  all ; 

When  humming  bird  and  busy  bee 
Flit  o'er  and  round  the  garden  wall. 

And  roses  blossom  by  the  way. 

But  fairest,  sweetest,  heaven  sent, 

Comes  this  great  calm  of  autumn-time ; 

This  crowTiing  glory  of  the  year 
Within  my  spirit  keepeth  rhyme. 

And  there-in  maketh  great  content. 

The  smoke  of  incense,  morn  and  night. 
Is  resting  on  the  purpled  hills — 

Nature's  thank-offering  to  Him 

Who,  with  His  bounteous  mercy,  fills 

Her  granaries  of  life  and  light. 
103 


Ah !  Pain  and  suffering  fly  away. 

And  bright  reflections  from  the  past 
Are  gleaming  round  us,  in  the  glow 

The  golden  clouds  at  sunset  cast — 
Meet  omen  of  a  brighter  day. 

SHADOWS 

Upon  the  mountain  top  the  sun 

In  glory  shines,  with  majesty  divine; 

My  longing  heart  would  in  his  glow  recline, 
My  anxious  thought  my  lagging  steps  out-run; 
Yet  distant  shines  the  glory  yet  unwon. 

Dark  o'er  my  path  the  shadows  float  between, 
And  the  bright  beams  my  eager  clasplngs  shun. 

While  farther  still  recedes  the  dazzling  sheen. 
So  shines  the  light  on  life's  high  mountain  brow. 

Bathing  in  glory  all  the  distant  crest, 
Yet  ever  as  my  longing  visions  grow. 

Striving  to  reach  the  beautiful  and  fair 

In  which  I  fain  would  find  my  spirit's  rest. 
Dark  shadows  float  around  me  everywhere. 


104 


A  BOAT  SONG 

In  the  bright  moonlight  merrily 

Swift  o'er  the  waves  we  go; 
Our  voices  mingling  cherrily, 

With  the  river's  rippling  flow. 
Oh!   happy   hearts,   how  lightly 

The  moments  pass  ye  by. 
When  moon  and  stars  beam  brightly, 

Life's  troubled  shadows  fly. 

List,  list  to  the  echoes  sounding, 

From  bank  and  wooded  hill ; 
From  wave  unto  wave  rebounding 

Sweet  murmurings  echo  still. 
Ah!  happy  hearts,  may  joy  thus 

Sound  thro'  the  years  to  come. 
And   midst  the  world's   rough   billows 

Be  round  ye  as  ye  roam. 

Softly  the  starlight  is  kissing 

Each   fair  and  youthful  brow, 
And  hearts  their  hopes  are  telling, 

In   tenderest  converse  low. 
May  Time  e'er  press  as  lightly 

Upon  each  sunny  head, 
And  Love  cast  e'er  a  halo 

Bright  as  the  moon  doth  shed. 

Then  send  the  boat  on  merrily, 

With  willing  hands  to  row. 
Sweet   voices   mingling   cherrily 

With  the  river's  rippling  flow. 
Ah,  happy  hearts,  why  should  we 

The  moments   sigh  away. 
When  hope  and  joy  surround  thee 

Beneath  the  moon's  bright  ray. 
105 


DUKE  DONALD  OF  ISLA  ISLE 
First  Part 

Sir  Percy  Wilde,  a  red-cross  knight, 

Who  erst  in  Palestine, 
Had  won  for  deeds  of  valor  bright, 

High  praise  from  all,  I  ween, 
Had  brought  with  him  from  Holy  Land 

His  fair  and  only  child ; 
And  many  knights  had  sought  the  hand 

Of  Lady  Ina  Wilde. 

But  this  fair  lady  loved  them  not. 

Her  thoughts  were  wont  to  stray 
Oft  to  the  one  she  ne'er  forgot, 

Tho'  far  he  roamed  away; 
A  stranger,  unknown,  youthful,  brave, 

Of  gallant  form  and  air. 
Who  from  old  ocean's  clinging  wave 

Had  saved  this  maiden  fair. 

And  she  so  rich  In  loveliness, 

And  fair  beyond  degree. 
What  wonder  is  it  love  should  bless 

Two  hearts  so  young  and  free. 
But,  proud  and  stern,  Sir  Percy  Wilde 

Had  spurned  the  w^eeping  girl ; 
And  swore  that  ne'er  of  his  a  child 

Should  wed  a  lowly  churl. 

"Bethink  you,  maid,  how  many  high 

And  noble,  tend  your  will." 
But  she,  all  weeping,  would  reply — 

"Father,   I  love  him  still," 


io6 


Then  angrily  Sir  Percy  said — 
"By  all  that's  good  and  ill, 

If  e'er  a  child  of  mine  doth  wed 
This  Hugh  of  Darro  Hill— 

"May  all  the  fiends  of  earth  and  sea 

Thy  brightest  days  o'er  cast; 
And  all  the  Joys  that  bloom  for  thee 

Be  far  too  frail  to  last. 
May  all  the  love  that  now  ye  prize 

Be  turned  to  direst  hate; 
Thy  days  turn  to  long  nights  of  sighs, 

Accurst  by  gloomy  Fate." 

Upon  a  rocky  mountain  steep 

The  castle  walls  rose  high. 
Rose  far  above  the  caverned  deep, 

Beneath  a  frowning  sky. 
And  here  within  its  buttressed  walls, 

That  overlooked  the  sea — 
Yet  still  a  prisoner — thro'  its  halls 

Fair  Ina  wandered  free. 

For  here  upon  this  rocky  height, 

Sir  Wilde  kept  watch  and  ward, 
With  chosen  men  of  proven  might, 

All  faithful  to  their  lord. 
For  though  he  scorned  the  humble  name 

Of  Hugh  of  Darro  Hill, 
He  oft  had  heard  his  vaunted  fame, 

And  deeds  of  daring  skill. 

The  sunset  cast  a  roseate  blush 

On  every  wall  and  tower, 
Bringing  a  soft  and  dreamy  hush 

To  veil  the  twilight  hour, 

107 


When  Ina  from  her  lattice  bent 

And  gazed  beyond  the  bay, 
While  many  longing  thoughts  she  sent 

To  Hugh  so  far  away. 

And  as  the  stars  with  varying  light 

Shone  trembling  o'er  the  sea, 
The  maiden  gazed  into  the  night. 

Dreaming  unconsciously  ; 
The  measured  tread  of  warders  grim, 

Going  their  nightly  round. 
By  donjon  keep,  and  court-yard  dim, 

The  one  disturbing  sound. 

And  e'en  their  steps  more  quiet  grew, 

While  darker  grew  the  night. 
Some  power  touched  their  vision  too, 

Veiling  all  outward  sight. 
Till  every  sense  of  hearing  closed. 

They  sank  in  silence  down, 
Weary  and  worn,  to  seek  repose. 

Nor  dreamt  of  fear  or  frown. 

She  dreamed — the  night  was  growling  dark 

Above  a  stormy  sea, 
While  waves  washed  o'er  her  fragile  barque, 

Wildly  and   ruthlessly. 
A  wave  of  dreary  form  and  hue 

Grasped  at  her  shrinking  form — 
She  woke — in  the  loving  arms  of  Hugh, 

Who  stilled  her  wild  alarm. 

Beneath  the  folds  of  darkness  deep 

That  shrouded  all  the  land. 
He  scaled  the  rocky  mount  so  steep 

With  his  well  chosen  band. 


io8 


"1  came,  my  love,  to  seek  for  thee, 

My  life's  bright  guiding  star, 
That  we,  in  love  and  hope  may  flee 

To  mine  own  land  afar. 
Firmly  and  strong  each  sentinel 

Lies  bound  beneath  the  walls, 
We  must  away  ere  morning's  bell 

Doth  wake  these  echoing  halls." 

"Oh,  Hugh!"  she  sobbed,  "my  angry  sire 

Doth  rate  thee  sternly  still. 
And  calls  down  dreadful  dangers  dire 

On  Hugh  of  Darro  Hill," 
"Ne'er  fear,  fair  Ina,  for  his  ire. 

For  this  I'll  promise  thee, 
That  ere  two  months  thy  high-born  sire 

Shall  welcome  thee  and  me." 

So  down  the  steep  with  silent  tread 

Hugh  bore  his  lovely  prize; 
And  o'er  the  wild  sea's  crested  wave 

Sailed  far  ere  morning-rise. 

The  wings  of  sleep  had  flown  away, 

And  bright  the  dawning  shone 
Upon  the  castle  old  and  gray — 

The  prisoned  bird  was  gone. 
And  loud  Sir  Percy  raved  and  swore — 

But  all  in  vain,  in  vain. 
Afar  on  Scotland's  rocky  shore 

The  loving  pair  remain ; 
And  two  full  months  will  pass  aw^ay 

Ere  they  return  again. 


109 


Part  Second 

'Twas  in  his  old  baronial  halls 
Sir  Percy  stood  to  meet  his  guest. 
A  stranger  from  the  Scottish  land, 
Entrusted   by  the  Queen's  command 
Unto  his  knightly  courtesy. 
'Twas  young  Duke  Donald  of  Isla  Isle, 
Who  came  with  power  and  pomp  the  while, 
And  met  his  host  with  dignity. 

"Sir  Percy  Wilde,  thro'  foreign  climes 
I've  roamed  for  many  years  gone  by. 
And  I  have  seen  thy  daughter  fair — 
Do  not  my  earnest  suit  deny. 
I've  wealth  untold  and  spacious  lands. 
And  many  wait  at  my  command. 
Emboldened  by  our  gracious  Queen, 
I  come  to  ask  thy  daughter's  hand. 
I  bear  an  old,  unsullied  name. 
My  sword  hath  won  me  high  renown, 
Yet  thy  sweet  child  is  dearer  far 
Than  ducal  coronet  or  crown. 
And  at  her  feet  I  lay  them  down. 

"Alas,  my  Lord,"  Sir  Percy  said, 
"My  erring  child  with  wayward  will, 
Two  months  gone  by  hath  fled  away 
With  low  born  Hugh  of  Darro  Hill. 
I  mourn  me  much,  for  gladly  would 
I  give  to  thee  her  youthful  hand; 
But  now,  alas!     I  have  no  child, 
No  one  to  love  in  this  broad  land. 
She  was  as  fair,  as  bright  and  pure. 
As  any  lady  far  or  near. 
And  now — I  dare  not  stop  to  think, 
Tho'  lost  to  me — she  still  is  dear." 

no 


"Nay,  Sir  Percy,  I'll  win  my  bride. 
Thy  daughter  yet  shall  my  Duchess  be; 
For  the  sake  of  Hugh  she  left  thy  side. 
And  yet  she  loves  but  thee  and  me. 
I  won  her  love  as  a  low-born  youth, 
And  she  is  my  bride,  good  sir,  in  truth." 

There  was  mirth  and  joy  in  the  castle  halls. 
And  lights  shone  bright  from  the  castle  walls. 
And  happy  hearts  were  there  the  while, 
To  welcome  the  Duchess  of  Isla  Isle. 


Ill 


A  SABBATH  DAY  AT  SEA 

Far  out  at  sea  the  white-caps  float 
Foam-tossed  upon  the  billows  high, 

A  dark-edged  rim  of  water  shows 
Outlined   against   the  morning  sky. 

The  sunbeams  fall  across  the  wave, 
A  shimmering  path  of  golden  light, 

A  way,  o'er  which  swift-gliding  feet 

May  mount  to  radiant  realms  of  light. 

Far  of^  the  ships,  like  white-winged  birds, 
Skim  o'er  the  billows,  growing  dim, 

Dip  down,  and  vanish  one  by  one, 
Beyond  the  ocean's  blue-edged  rim. 

We  hail  a  steamer,  southward  bound, 

And  wave  a  signal  in  the  air. 
Upon  the  waste  of  waters  wide, 

'Tis  sweet  a  passing  joy  to  share. 

We  w^atch  her  climb  each  swelling  height 
Or  sink  with  ever>^  wave  that  dies; 

Then  creep,  a  tiny  thing  of  life, 
Along  the  gray  of  distant  skies. 

How  vast  the  deep  immensity 

Where  mighty  billows  roll! 
The  ceaseless  burden  of  their  voice 

Awakes  the  careless  soul; 

It  speaks  the  strength,  the  power  of  God, 
Who  holds  them  at  His  will, 

Bidding  them  rise  in  storm  and  might, 
Or  sleep  at  "Peace,  be  still!" 


112 


Along  the  western  evening  sky, 

The   sunset   glories   gleam, 
A  golden  plain,  with  roseate  hills, 

The  vision  of  a  dream. 

We  see  the  cloudland  beauties  grow 

'Neath  an  enchanter's  hand, 
We  trace  the  spreading  fields  of  light, 

And  shores  of  shining  sand. 

Outlining  many  a  molten  sea, 

And  isles  of  purple  hue; 
While  far  above,  thro'  fleecy  folds 

Shine  glints  of  tender  blue. 

Then  shifting  curtains  drop  their  folds, 

And   far-off  castles  glow 
On  mountain  heights,  whose  tops  are  white 

With  drifting,  scudding  snow. 

And  rosy  flushes,  crimson  bars. 
Pierce  ever}'  mountain  height — 

A  sunset  scene  of  radiance, 
That  throws  a  heavenly  light. 

Down  on  a  sea  that  darker  grows, 

As  evening  shadows  creep ; 
While  tuneful  voices  sing  their  lay 

To  soothe  the  day  to  sleep. 

Those  evening  hymns  of  praise  and  prayer 

Float  o'er  the  waters  wide; 
And  hearts  grow  strong  for  life  or  death,— 

Whichever  mav  betide. 


113 


LIFE'S  NOT  ALL  A  SUMMER  DAY 

Life's  not  all  a  summer's  day, 

Sunlight  ever  shining; 
Never  a  day  will  pass  away 

That  brings  us  no  repining. 
The  hours  may  fly  without  a  sigh, 

And  joy  heap  up  the  measure, 
But  sadness  settles  in  the  cup, 

And  flavors  all  our  pleasure. 

Froth  and  foam  upon  the  crest 

Of  the  wave  are  flying; 
In  the  quieter  depths  below 

What  priceless  gems  are  lying. 
Richer  treasures  than  the  pleasures 

Floating  on  the  billow's  crest, 
Give  me  peace  and  sweet  contentment, 

Gems  that  brighten  home  the  best. 

Worldly  joys  cannot  endure 

'Neath  the  touch  of  sorrow. 
The  brightest  day  must  pass  away. 

We  know  naught  of  the  morrow. 
If  storms  should  fly  athwart  the  sky. 

Ruining  the  hopes  we  cherish. 
How  sad  would  be  our  destiny, 

If,  unprepared,  we  perish. 

May  storms  be  slow  to  gather 

Around  our  onward  way. 
May  every  hour  of  sun  or  shower 

Some  benison  on  us  lay, 
And  when  from  light  into  the  night. 

Our  latter  steps  are  turning 
With  wakeful  eyes  'midst  sweet  surprise, 

May  our  lamps  bright  be  burning. 

114 


WERE  I  UPON  A  DESERT  ISLE 

Were  I  upon  a  desert  isle, 
Where  never  bloomed  a  rose; 

Where  sunny  flowers  never  smile, 
Nor  murmuring  streamlet  flov^s; 

Where  all  is  barren,  sad  and  lone, 

And  naught  is  ever  heard, 
Save  echo  of  the  ocean's  moan. 

Or  cry  of  ocean  bird ; 

Where  music  never  sweetly  low, 

Has  breathed  its  melody, 
E'en  this  would  be  an  Eden  now, 

If  it  were  shared  by  thee. 

Or  were  I  in  that  sunny  land, 
Where  fragrance  fills  the  air; 

Where  laughing  billows  kiss  the  strand. 
And  all  around  is  fair; 

Where  wintry  frosts  will  never  come, 

Aught  beautiful  decay — 
This,  this  could  never  be  my  home. 

If  thou  wert  far  away. 

For  home  without  the  ones  we  love, 

Can  never  happy  be; 
And  Eden  itself  would  lonely  prove 

Unless  'twere  shared  by  thee. 


115 


SUNRISE 

I  see  with  shadow)^  gleam, 

Along  the  eastern  sky, 
On   fleet  and  aity  wing, 

The  blushing  morning  fly. 
Her  rosy  fingers  touch  with  light. 
The  sable  curtains  of  the  night. 

In    undulating    waves 

The  cloudy  mists  arise, 
That  veiled  in  darkened  folds. 

The  pathway  of  the  skies. 
The  flaming  falchions  of  the  day, 
Through  clouds  and  darkness  cleave  their  way. 

In   changeful   light   and   shade 

The  distant  hill-tops  lie; 
The   shadows   of   the   vale, 

Pierced  by  bright  arrows,  die; 
And  tints  that  paint  the  earth  below, 
Reflect   the   inner  heavens'   glow. 

Day's  waving  banners  float 

On  every  mountain  height. 
And    o'er   the   smiling   plain 

March  all  her  heralds  bright, 
Decking  the  world  in  glorious  guise, 
With  garments  stolen  from  the  skies. 

The  smiling  hours  attend 

Where'er  her  footsteps  go 
To  see,  with  dazzled  eyes. 

Amid  the  fien^  glow 
Where  proud  old  ocean  clasps  the  skies. 
The  dripping  God  of  day  arise. 

Ii6 


MY  LITTLE  BIRD 

Dear  little  bird,  I  loved  thee  well 

Since  that  spring  morning,  when  I  found 

Thee  lying  on  the  cold,  wet  ground. 

Poor,  helpless  thing. 

With  out-stretched  wing. 
Storm-tossed  from  out  the  swaying  nest, 
Thou  couldst  not  fly. 
I  gave  thee  food,  and  warmth,  and  rest. 

At  first  afraid  of  touch,  and  shy. 

Thou  soon  hadst  plumed  thy  downy  breast ; 

And  grew  so  gentle  and  so  tame, 

And  learned  to  come  when  called  by  name, 

I  thought  thee  here  content  wouldst  stay, 

To  sing  to  me  each  winter  day. 

My  little  bird,  thy  kindred  fly 

Across  the  blue  of  yonder  sky. 

Afar  to  southern  fields  away. 

Their  flight  they  can  no  more  delay. 

And  well  I  see  each  eager  spring. 

That  tries  the  bars  with  fluttering  wing, 

In  futile  strivings  to  be  free. 

I  pity  thee! 

I  pity  thee! 
Thy  prison  bars  shall  opened  be. 

My  pretty  bird,  perchance  next  May, 
When  birds  are  nesting  every  day. 
When  apple  blossoms  fall  like  snow 
Upon  the  orchard  grass  below. 
From  southern  lands  thy  flight  may  be, 
Eager  to  see  thy  home  and  me. 


117 


Perchance  some  morn  at  early  dawn, 
A  bird-call  from  the  dewy  lawn, 
Familiar  to  my  loving  ear, 
Will  warn  me  that  my  pet  is  near. 
And  when  I  ope  my  casement  wide 
A  wild,  swift  rush  of  wings  inside — 

My  birdling, 

How  I'll  welcome  thee! 
If  thus  thou  wilt  come  back  to  me. 


ii8 


THE  AUTUMN  MORN 

Oh,  dewy  Autumn  morn, 

When  stillness  broodeth  deep ; 
No  hurry  and  no  noise 

To  rouse  a  world  from  sleep. 
What  fullness  of  content. 

These  early  hours  hold. 
WTiat  restful  peace  doth  lie 

On  mountain,  stream  and  wold. 

The  rays  of  roseate  light 

Tint  up  the  shadowy  hills. 
And  tinkling  through  the  air 

Comes  music  from  the  rills ; 
A  bird  song  sounding  clear 

Wakens  an  answering  call. 
And  out  of  the  ether  gray 

The  light  gleams  over  all. 

Oh,  beautiful  Autumn  morn ; 

The  spiders'  webs  shine  bright. 
From  post  to  post  and  tree. 

They  shine  in  the  morning  light. 
The  glittering  drops  of  dew, 

Jewels  on  leaf  and  flower, 
Ephemeral  pearls  of  night. 

Will  vanish  in  an  hour. 

The  leaflets,  dreaming  still, 

Are  rustling  on  the  trees ; 
And  the  voices  of  insect  life 

Float  on  the  gentle  breeze ; 
And  from  the  distant  town, 

The  hum  of  busy  strife 
Thrills  the  expectant  air, — 

The  world  awakes  to  life. 

119 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD 

It  was  a  scene  of  quiet  loveliness, 

The  mother  watching  by  her  sleeping  child, 

Who  is  his  dreams  half  oped  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

Methinks  the  angels  whispered  to  him  then, 
Of  flowery  fields  and  meadows  far  away, 
And  cherub  voices  calling  him  to  play. 

He  smiled  to  think  how  happy  he  would  be. 
And  longed  to  fly  away,  with  them  to  rove — 
But  ah — the  power  of  a  mother's  love. 

He  opened  then  his  eyes  of  darkest  blue. 
And  met  hers  gazing  down  so  tenderly, 
That  all  forgotten  were  those  flowery  meads. 
And  in  her  arms  he  nestled  lovingly. 

And  once  again  the  mother  watched  her  child — 
But  now  no  smile  was  on  his  infant  face, 
Nor  oped   he  his   blue   eyes  with  soft,   bewitching 
grace. 

Peaceful  and  calm,  in  innocence  he  slept. 

No  storms  of  life  nor  sin  could  touch  him  now. 

Nor  passion  stamp  her  seal  upon  his  pallid  brow. 

A  rosebud,  broken  by  a  storm,  he  looked. 
Like  flakes  of  snow,  his  little  hands  at  rest 
Lay  folded  on  his  calm  and  pulseless  breast. 

Yes,  he  has  gone  with  angel  friends  to  dwell. 
And  thou  canst  watch  no  more  his  cradle  bed. 
Poor  Mother,   mourn  thy  loss,   thy  little  child   is 
dead. 


120 


GONE! 

Gone!  forever  gone! 
And  all  the  sweet,  wild  flowers  the  zephyrs  loved, 
And  came  to  woo  in  evening's  twilight  hour, 
Have   drooped    their   sunny   heads,    and    much   be- 
moaned, 
The  mistress  whom  their  hearts  so  loved  should  die. 
The  bright  warm  days,  the  sunny  hours,  and  all 
The  fair  and  beautiful,  have  flown  away 
To  other  climes  of  warmth  and  light;  and  we 
Beneath  the  cold  embrace  and  ling'ring  kiss 
Of  Winter,  dark  and  wild,  must  still  live  on 
With  tired  and  cheerless  hearts,  whence  every  hope 
That  bathed  the  world  in  light,  fore'er  has  gone. 
Ah,  me !  Why  must  we  live  when  those  we  love 
Have  passed  away  and  left  us  desolate! 
When  earth  seems  one  vast  waste,  where  not  a  bud 
Nor  flow'r  of  love  remains  to  cheer  the  way ; 
But  dark  and  frowning  clouds  o'erspread  the  sky, 
Hiding  from  us  the  shining  star  of  Hope. 
Life  stalks  all  dreary  by,  mid  longings  vain 
To  pass  away  and  be  at  rest,  within 
The  silent  solitude,  and  solemn  hush 
That  hang  around  the  tomb. 


121 


LOVE  LIES  DEAD 

My  heart  hath  loved  but  thee  alone 

Thro'  all  the  years  since  childhood  fled, 
Thro'  all  the  cares  that  thronged  us  round, 

But  now,  alas!  poor  Love  lies  dead. 
'Tis  not  that  I  have  sought  or  found 

A  nearer,  dearer  one — ah,  no! 
When  once  the  winter  frosts  have  touched 

A  plant — that  plant  no  more  can  grow. 

I  do  not  know  if  thou  art  false, 

For  that  thy  soul  alone  canst  tell. 
Thou  mayst  have  no  higher  aim 

Than  thus  to  live  thy  life — ah,  well! 
How  bright  the  sun  shines  o'er  some  lives, 

How  joyous  speeds  each  passing  day, 
While  some  poor  souls  of  hope  bereft 

In  pain  and  sorrow  pine  away. 

I've  missed  life's  sunlight,  air  and  warmth, 

Met  only  chilling  frosts  and   snow; 
Neglect  hath  wilted  ^own  the  plant. 

And  my  poor  love  no  more  can  grow. 
Then  fare-thee-well — oh,  dreams  of  youth! 

Sad  heart,  thy  burden  bear  apace! — 
Walk  on  thy  lonely  way  unloved, 

And  cover  up  thy  love's  dead  face. 


122 


THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  FAREWELL 

"The  moon  is  sinking  slowly,  love, 

A  down  the  western  sky, 
But  stars  are  beaming  brightly,  love, 

As  beams  thy  dark  blue  eye. 
The  soft  south  wind  is  roaming  now 

Among  the  orange  bowers. 
And  swiftly,  silently  away 

Doth  pass  the  midnight  hours. 

Whene'er  the  first  faint  light  of  morn 

Shall  make  the  hill-tops  bright 
I  must  away,  and  with  the  day 

My  barque  be  out  of  sight 
But  weep  not,  love,  for  soon  again 

I  will  return  to  thee, 
And  never  more  afar  I'll  roam 

Across  the  deep  blue  sea. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  love,  my  own! 

My  friends  await  but  me; 
And  I,  their  chief,  must  not  delay, 

Farewell,  farewell  to  thee!" 
He  w^aved  his  hand ;  into  his  barque 

He  stepped  with  native  pride ; 
It  bounded  swiftly  o'er  the  wave. 

Upon  the  rolling  tide. 

And  many  moons  had  come  and  gone. 

And  many  years  passed  by; 
She  waited  for  his  safe  return, 

Whene'er  the  night  drew  nigh. 
Ah,  true,  he  said  he  nevermore 

Would  cross  the  ocean  wave — 
Upon  its  mossy  beds  below 

They  all  have  found  a  grave. 
123 


Vet  on  the  shore  there  wanders  still, 

A  form  that  once  was  fair; 
With  moaning  words  and  wailing  sighs, 

And  torn,  dishevelled  hair, 
She  gazes  wildly  o'er  the  waste, 

And  cries,  "Why  comes  he  not? 
The  nymphs  of  ocean  stole  my  lord, 

And  I  am  all  forgot!" 


124 


RETROSPECTION 

Looking  back  o'er  the  scenes  of  life, 
When  youth  was  bright  and  gay, 

How  clear  the  sky,  how  fair  the  flowers. 
That  blossomed  by  the  way. 

How  joyous  seemed  the  dancing  hours; 

Each  brought  a  new  surprise; 
Views  faded  into  views  more  fair, 

Before  our  wondering  eyes. 

How  sweet  a  thing  is  youthful  hope 

That  knows  no  sorrow  wild; 
The  future  gleams  distinct  and  bright. 

Before    the   aspiring   child. 

No  wasted  hopes,  no  friendships  dead, 
No  dear  ones  loved  and  lost; 

No  hearts  aweary  with  their  cross, 
With  passion  tempest-tossed. 

It  knows  not  these;    the  balmy  breeze 

Of  Spring-time  fills  the  air; 
The  blossoms  w^ake,  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

The  world  knows  naught  of  care. 

Ah  me,  it  makes  me  sad  to  think 
Life's   spring-time   lasts   not  long. 

Too  soon  the  storms  of  life  arise 
And  hush  the  heart's  glad  song. 

The  blossoms  bloom  their  short-lived  hour, 

Experience  frosts  them  o'er. 
And  down  the  years  the  waves  of  sin 

And  sorrow  beat  us  sore. 


125 


Ah,  Friend!     Yield  not  to  dark  despair, 
Though  summer  days  are  o'er 

A  brighter  day  may  dawn  for  thee. 
Upon  life's  other  shore. 


126 


MY  DEAR  OLD  HOME 

My  dear  old  home!  'Tis  a  sheltered  spot 

In  the  edge  of  the  woodland  shade, 
Where  the  brooklet  pauses  awhile  to  rest, 

Ere  it  parts  from  the  mossy  glade. 
And  the  wild  flowers  bloom  far  sweeter  there, 

As  they  creep  o'er  the  lowly  walls; 
'Tis  many  a  year  since  my  voice  hath  waked 

The  echoes  within  its  halls. 

Ah,  nowhere  I'll  find  a  lovelier  spot, 

Than  that  home  hath  seemed  to  me, 
When  wearied  with  childish  roamings  far, 

I  lay  'neath  the  shade  of  its  old  oak  tree. 
'Tis  true  I  was  ever  a  lonesome  child. 

My  playmates  were  only  the  birds  and  flowers. 
Yet  there,  in  the  shade  of  the  forest  wild, 

I  passed  my  happiest  hours. 

'Tis  years  agone  since  my  infant  feet 

First  tottered  around  by  its  murmuring  stream; 
But  its  memory  comes  to  my  faithful  heart, 

Like  the  vision  soft  of  some  happy  dream, 
I've  wandered  through  pleasant  paths  of  earth. 

And  now  o'er  my  native  land  I  roam, 
And  many  a  beautiful  cot  I've  seen. 

But  none  I  love  like  my  old  home. 

Its  walls  are  gray  with  the  moss  of  years. 

And  weeds  grow  tall  by  the  open  door; 
It  wears  a  sorrowful,  lonely  look. 

That  endears  it  to  my  heart  still  more 
For  the  friends  that  lived  in  that  loved  spot, 

Will  nevermore  to  its  roof-tree  come; 
And  all  that  is  left  to  my  memory. 

Are  tender  thoughts  of  my  old,  old  home. 

127 


FOR  AN  ALBUM 

Ships  at  Sea 

Launched  out  upon  the  changeful  sea 
Of  life,  our  ships  float  swift  and  free, 

To  unknown  lands  where  hope  and  joy, 

We  dream  shall  be  without  alloy. 

With  happy  hearts  and  sunlit  skies, 
With  visions  bright  before  our  eyes, 

We  dream  of  future  years  to  come. 

When  our  brave  ships  shall  turn  toward  home. 

Oh,  ships  that  sail  o'er  unknown  seas, 

With  wealth  as  great  as  argosies. 

Will  ye  bring  back  when  years  have  flown, 
Freightage  as  priceless  as  our  own? 

Heavily  laden,  now  ye  ride. 

With  tender  thoughts,  out  with  the  tide, 

Will  ye  come  from  those  far-off  seas. 

Bringing  us  tender  memories? 

Or  sadly,  slowly,  will  ye  come. 
With  poor  dead  loves  amid  the  gloom? 

With  bitter  memories,  bitter  tears, 

Withered  hopes  and  wasted  years? 

Oh  may  thy  barque,  dear  Celia,  come 
Freighted  with  love  and  gladness  home; 
And  all  the  joys  of  life  combine 
To  make  their  sweetest  fruitage  thine. 

May  smiling  skies  and  pleasant  ways 

Be  o'er  and  round  thee  all  thy  days; 
And  all  thy  ventures  on  life's  sea, 
Come  back  increased  tenfold  for  thee. 

128 


This  book  of  thine  launched  on  the  tide 
And   drifting  round   from  side  to  side, 
When   laden,   homeward   bound   shall   be, 
Freighted  with  tender  thought  for  thee. 


129 


THE  STARS   SEEM   BRIGHTER 

The  stars  seem  brighter,  love,  to-night, 

Than  e'er  they  seemed  before  ; 
And  softer  falls  their  dewy  light, 

Upon  the  lakelet's  shore. 
A  dreamy  hush  is  in  the  air, 

And  trembles  o'er  the  sea; 
And  life,  so  rich,  so  pure,  so  fair, 

Ne'er  seemed  before,  to  me. 

The  pale,  wild  blossoms  calmly  sleep. 

And  dream  of  other  lands; 
No  sorrow  comes  to  moan  nor  weep 

Among  their  flowery  bands. 
Clear,  calm  and  bright,  the  bending  skies 

Of  love  and  hope  are  breathing; 
And  with  our  happy  passing  sighs 

Soft  tones  are  round  us  wreathing. 

In  other  years  no  storms  had  cast 

A  shadow  o'er  the  light ; 
And  many  a  summer  eve  hath  past 

As  purely  clear  and  bright. 
Yet,  love,  my  heart  is  bound  to-night. 

With  spells  of  magic  power; 
And  never  seemed  earth  half  so  bright. 

As  in  this  starlit  hour. 


130 


THE  MOURNFUL  RAIN 

Pattering,  pattering  all  the  night, 

The  elfin  footsteps  fall. 

The  elfin  voices  call, 
And  haunt  me  till  the  morning  light. 

Whispering,  whispering  sad  and  low 
The  winds  come  moaning  by. 
Wierd  winds  that  weary  sigh 

Unto  the  night  their  tale  of  woe. 

The  shuddering  rain,  the  weeping  rain. 

It  beats  the  window  pane 

And  sobs  its  drear  refrain 
Thrilling  the  soul  with  throbs  of  pain. 

Ah,  mournful  rain !  Ah,  sorrowful  rain ! 
Weep  thou  the  live-long  night, 
Weep  till  the  morning  light. 

Lost  joys  can  never  come  again. 

And  yet,  Oh,  rain!  Oh,  generous  rain! 
Though  joys  have  passed  away, 
There  comes  a  brighter  day. 

In  which  new  flowers  may  bloom  again. 


131 


THE  EXILE  FROM  ERIN 

Farewell  to  Thee,  Erin! 
Thou  home  of  my  childhood! 
I've  wandered  afar  in  the  shade  of  thy  wildwood. 

I've  roved  thro'  thy  valleys, 
Thy  uplands  roamed  o'er. 
Yet  now  I  am  leaving  thy  emerald  shore. 

How  oft  by  thy  streamlets 
I've  wandered  at  even, 
And  gazed  on  the  glory  that  shone  in  the  heaven, 

Till  my  heart  in  its  rapture, 
Deemed  the  stars  ne'er  could  be, 
As  bright  in  their  shining,  as  here  over  thee. 

The  memories  of  home 
O'er  my  heart  softly  stealing, 
Are  waking  the  waters  of  love  and  deep  feeling, 

Till  I  sigh  for  the  cot 
By  the  wide  spreading  wildwood, 
And  the  maiden  who  shared  all  my  griefs  in  my 
childhood. 

Far,  far  o'er  the  ocean 
Our  vessel  is  flying 

While  the  wind  thro'  the  torn  sails 
In  sorrow^  is  sighing, 

And  echoes  back  sad 
To  our  passionate  grieving, 
A  dirge  for  the  homes  and  the  land  we  are  leaving. 


132 


Then  fare-thee-well,  Erin! 
I  know  not  if  e'er 
I  shall  ever  return  to  thy  green  shores  so  dear. 

Should  I  die  in  my  exile, 
My  last  words  shall  be 
The  name  of  my  Aileen,  and  farewell  to  thee. 


133 


DREAMS 

They  come  around  us 

With  magical  power, 
To  bless  and  to  gladden 

Each   lonely  hour. 
Like  strains  of  sweet  music 

They  steal  o'er  the  heart, 
Recall  happy  moments, 
Bid  sorrow  depart: 
Bringing  back  visions  of  youth's  sunny  hours, 
When  skies  were  unclouded,  and  bright  were  the 
flowers. 

They  cheer  the  lone  heart, 

Bid  loved  ones  again 
Come  round  us  to  bless 

And  caress  us  as  then. 
Ah !  sad  is  the  waking 

From  memory's  dream ; 
To  miss  the  soft  glances 

In  tenderness  beam 
From  eyes  that  are  closed  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
Resting  'neath  the  green  sod  or  afar  in  the  deep. 

Oh !  bright,  happy  dreams. 

May  ye  ever  come 
To  brighten  the  lonely 

And  darkened  hearthstone. 
A  softened  light  shedding 

O'er  life's  sad  decay. 
And  smoothing  the  weary 
And  desolate  way. 
Oh,  bring  back  the  forms  of  the  loved  ones  gone; 
Bring  them   back   to   the  haunts  where   I   wander 
alone. 


134 


THE  LOST  SHEEP 

Thro'  the  dark  night 

While  the  storm  rages  high, 
Out  on  the  prairie 

Beneath  the  fierce  sky, 
Wanders  a  storm-drenched  and  weary-worn  sheep, 
Far  from  the  fold  where  the  rest  lie  asleep. 

Thro'  the  dark  night 

With  the  rain  beating  down ; 
Danger  around  him. 
Too  weary  to  moan  ; 
He  sinks  to  the  earth  with  fast  glazing  eye. 
If  help  come  not  soon  he  surely  must  die. 

''Where  is  my  sheep, 

In  the  night  and  the  rain?" 
The  Good  Shepherd  cries. 
*'He  wanders  again. 
Come  back  from  the  snares  that  lead  you  astray, 
Sharp  thorns  and  briers  lie  thick  in  the  way." 

Thro'  the  dark  night 

Thro'  the  rain  and  the  wind, 
The  Good  Shepherd  hies 

His  lost  sheep  to  find. 
He  carries  him  back  upon  His  warm  breast, 
And  safe  in  the  fold  gives  him  comfort  and  rest. 
Search,  brethren,  search! 

For  sheep  that  go  astray. 
Work,  brethren,  work! 

Ere  comes  the  close  of  day. 


135 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NORTHERN  SEA 

Sometimes  in  dreams  come  back  to  me, 

Quaint  stories  I  have  read ; 
And  tales  of  direful  mystery 

Told  by  my  childish  bed. 

And  one,  a  legend,  old  and  grim, 

About  the  Northern  sea. 
To  memory  seems  growing  dim, 

Since  it  was  told  to  me. 

Once  on  a  time  in  earlier  days, 

An  island  fair  and  bright. 
Floated  upon  the  Arctic  waves, 

A  dreamland  of  delight. 

A  halo  hung  about  its  hills, 

A  soft  and  misty  crown ; 
And  brightly  flashed  its  silver  rills. 

Rippling  its  slopes  adown. 

Sometimes  it  lay  in  sunshine  bright, 

Far  southward,  w^hen  the  days  were  warm. 

Sometimes  it  drifted  in  the  night 
Of  many  a  wild,  fierce  Arctic  storm, 

And  caught  within  its  sea-worn  caves. 

Rare  treasures  flung  there  by  the  waves. 

No  earthly  blossom  ever  grew, 

No  wild  beast  had  his  lair, 
Amid  its  vales  of  drifting  snow, 

Nor  in  its  caverns  bare — 
Which  shone  with  phosphorescent  light, 
And  sent  its  radiaice  thro'  the  night. 


136 


It  echoed  back  no  wild  bird's  scream. 

No  ship  e'er  touched  its  side. 
But  many  a  vessel  saw  the  gleam, 

And  watched  its  brilliant  shadow  glide 
Across  the  billows'  whitened  spray; 
And  followed  in  its  fiery  wake 
The  shadow  they  could  ne'er  o'ertake, 
Till,  vanishing,  it  left  them  there, 
Bewildered,  lost,  they  knew  not  where. 

And  many  a  vessel  ne'er  came  home 
That  followed  this  enchanted  isle. 

Drifting  fore'er  shall  be  their  doom. 

And  waiting  hearts  would  break  the  while; 

Waiting  and  looking  from  the  shore. 

For  loved  ones  who  will  come  no  more. 

There  came  a  morn  when  o'er  the  sea, 
A  stately  vessel's  sails  flashed  by. 

All  homeward  bound,  with  white  wings  free, 
Over  the  waves  it  seemed  to  fly. 

The  arctic  air  was  pure  and  clear, 
The  waves  were  white  with  foam. 

No  cloud  foretold  the  danger  near, 
No  storm,  impending  doom. 

They  saw  far  off  a  shining  gleam 

Of  something  fair  and  bright; 
The  mirage  of  some  lovely  dream, 

A  gleam  of  life  and  light. 

With  wonder  all  the  sailors  gaze 

Upon  the  enchanted  land. 
That  lures  them  to  an  ocean  grave, 

Beyond  its  shining  strand. 


137 


They  sail  all  day,  they  meet  the  night 

Settling  in  darkness  down. 
And  yet  the  isle's  illusive  light 

Has  nothing  nearer  grown. 

Its  hills  shine  thro'  the  softened  mist 

And  ever  higher  grow; 
Their  tops,  by  flashing  glories  kissed 

Reflect  the  fiery  glow. 

The  day  passed  by;  a  night  of  stars; 

The  pale  moon  calmly  smiled. 
The  clear  North  star  unwavering  shone 

Above  the  Northern  wild. 

At  midnight  hour  they  felt  the  throes 

That  shivered  thro'  the  shuddering  waves, 

When  o'er  them  fell  the  towering  floes, 
Sinking  them  all  to  ocean  graves. 

Alas,  for  those  in  homes  away, 
Whose  loved  ones  journeyed  here! 

Alas,  for  those  whose  hearts  each  day, 
Waited  in  doubt  and  fear. 

The  vessel  lies  beneath  the  waves, 

In  ocean  groves  atween, 
And  all  those  forms  rove  ocean's  caves, 

And  meads  of  shadowy  green. 

Yet  two  sank  not — a  maiden  bright, 

A  youth  so  good  and  true. 
That  bright,  enchanted  isle  of  light, 

So  pleasant  to  their  view. 


138 


Was  floating  near,  and  only  they 
Had  gained  its  crystal  side. 

And  found  within  its  sheltered  caves 
A  refuge  from  the  tide. 

Upon  another  island  near, 
The  Ice-king  frowning  lay. 

His  sceptre  governed  far  and  near; 
All  nature  ow^ned  his  sway. 

'Twas  he  that  loosed  the  icy  floes, 
Watching  the  ship  sink  down; 

But  when  he  saw  the  youth  escaped. 
There  rose  an  angry  frown. 

He  sought  the  maid  and  softly  spake — 

If  she  would  be  his  bride, 
Fore'er  for  him  this  youth  forsake. 

In  queenly  state  to  ride — 
**A11  gems  of  earth  and  pearls  of  sea, 

All  richest  treasures  rare. 
And  princely  gifts  I'll  bring  to  thee, 

A  wealth  beyond  compare." 

But  trembling  still  she  turned  away. 
For  his  keen,  chilling  breath, 

And  cold  embrace  made  dark  the  day- 
It  seemed  the  grasp  of  death, 

And  then  the  king  in  anger  rose. 
Sternly  and  loud  he  cried — 

"No  mortal  yet  hath  dared  refuse 
To  be  the  Ice-king's  bride." 

So  loosing  from  its  icy  chain. 

His  island  towering  there, 
It  sped  with  mighty  strength  amain, 

Upon  this  islet  fair. 

139 


Down,  down  It  sank  thro'  ocean  space, 
While  maidens  of  the  deep, 

Sought  out  for  it  a  resting  place, 
Where  fair  sea-flowers  sleep. 

This  shining  isle  is  still  as  bright 

As  in  those  days  of  yore. 
Dwelling  in  the  enchanted  light, 

Sorrow  its  wing  no  more 
Waves  o'er  those  lovers  true  and  brave. 

From  earthly  troubles  free; 
Dwelling  beneath  the  ice-bound  wave. 

Of  the  Northern  crystal  sea. 

And  still  they  say,  when  nights  are  fair, 

And  stars  smile  from  above, 
A  phantom  ship  in  silence  there, 

With  sails  all  set  doth  rove. 

And  many  a  tale  the  seaman  tells, 

In  the  watches  of  the  night  ; 
Of  the  angry  Ice-king's  magic  spells. 

And  this  youth  and  maiden  bright. 


140 


LITTLE  CHARLIE 

Little  one,  with  blue  eyes  laughing, 

Where  dost  thou  roam? 
In  the  forest  depths  art  hiding? 

Is  there  thy  home? 

Where  the  fairies  hold  their  revels, 

In  moonlit  hours. 
Or  in  the  morning's,  early  dawn, 

Among  the  flowers? 

Laughing  sprite,  thy  golden  ringlets 

Kiss  thy  fair  brow; 
On  thy  cheek  are  roses  blending 

With  lilies  now. 

Clouds  that  rest  on  the  mountain  top. 
Are  they  thy  home? 
Or  the  cataract's  blinding  spray, 
Or  billowV  foam? 

Thou  art  one  of  earth's  fair  children, 

From  heaven  sent, 
To  bless  and  gladden  weary  hearts, 

A  treasure  lent. 


141 

10 


HAPPY  HOURS 

Oh,  happy  hours  in  other  days, 

How  soon  ye  fled  away! 
With  hearts  from  care  and  sorrow  free, 

Could  ye  no  longer  stay? 
Those  were  the  hours  and  those  the  days 

When  sin  had  not  come  nigh; 
Ere  earthly  cares  and  sorrow's  trials 

Had  caused  the  heart  to  sigh. 

Life  still  may  seem  as  bright  and  fair. 

Its  sky  be  just  as  clear, 
But  Time  has  kept  a  record  strict 

Of  every  passing  year. 
And  tho'  the  record  is  not  seen, 

'Tis  felt  in  every  heart ; 
And  with  those  happy  hours  and  days 

We  have  henceforth  no  part. 


142 


YEARS  GONE  BY 

Years  gone  by!  Many  a  memory  bright 

Hath  lain  within  my  heart  shut  in  from  sight. 

Faces  we  loved,  and  many  a  loving  token 

Of  once  dear  ties  that  time  and  change  have  broken. 

Thronged  around  with  busy  cares  we  never 
Do  bring  these  memories  forth,  'tis  ever 
When  twilight  comes  beneath  a  summer  sky, 
We  mourn  in  secret  o'er  the  years  gone  by. 

Ah  friends  so  near  and  dear,  how  oft  it  seems 
It  must  be  real — it  cannot  be  my  dreams 
That  bring  thee  back  to  me — nay,  poor  heart,  sigh! 
'Tis  only  dreams — alas  the  years  gone  by! 

Rosy  hues  of  childhood  days  have  faded, 
Later  days  with  clouds  of  care  are  shaded. 
There  ne'er  can  shine  for  us  as  bright  a  sky 
As  that  w^hich  blest  us  in  the  years  gone  by. 


143 


GIVE  MOONLIT  HOURS  TO  MEMORY 

When   moonbeams  gild   the  mountain  height, 

And  ripple  o'er  the  sea, 
And  every  echo  answers  back 

The  hour's  sweet  minstrelsy, 
'Tis  then  I  love  to  sit  alone, 

And  give  to  Fancy  power 
To  trace  the  past  in  fairest  tints, 

And  paint  hope's  rainbow  flower. 

Or  sit  and  hearken  to  the  lay, 

Trilled  by  the  nightingale. 
The  cricket's  chant,  the  streamlet's  song, 

That  thrills  the  quiet  vale. 
And  oft,  methinks,  I  hear  the  tread 

Of  some  familiar  friend 
Some  loved  one's  voice,  a  tone,  a  sigh. 

With  Nature's  music  blend. 

And  when  in  other  lands  afar. 

Thy  wandering  footsteps  roam. 
In  moonlit  hours,  one  thought,  I  pray, 

Oh,  give  to  me  at  home. 
For  then  as  glide  the  waters  by 

Toward  the  distant  sea. 
And  moonbeams  ripple  o'er  the  wave, 

ril  sit  and  dream  of  thee. 


144 


''TOO  LATE!" 

The  roses  of  June 

Were  blossoming, 
The  earth  and  the  sky  were  bright; 

The  great  waves  shouted 

A  pleasant  song, 
As  w^e  walked  on  the  beach  that  night. 

You  remember  it  still, 

Thro'  the  years  that  have  flown, 
For  who  that  once  loves  can  forget! 

The  light  spoken  words, 

And  the  hearts  void  of  care, 
Come  back  to  the  memory  yet. 

When  the  morrow  came 

You  sailed  away 
To  be  gone  but  one  short  year ; 

The  year  passed  away, 

You  came  not  back 
And  my  heart  was  heavy  with  fear. 

I  mourned  for  you  then 

As  the  years  glided  by. 
Till  the  roses  of  June  bloomed  fair. 

One  morn  I  was  wed 

In  the  old  village  church, — 
But  my  husband  had  silv'ry  hair. 

He  loves  me  much  and 

His  kindly  heart 
Shall  never  so  wounded  be  ; 

Go  back  to  the  paths 

You  ought  to  tread. 
As  a  friend  think  only  of  me. 


145 


'Tis  true  that  the  thought 

Of  those  distant  June  days, 
Comes  over  me  now  like  a  spell,-^ 

I  h'sten  again 

The  low  tones  of  your  voice, 
Amid  the  waves'  deepening  swell. 

Ah  me,  the  past  is 

Naught  but  a  dream, 
And  you  have  returned  "too  late." 

Love's  roses  have  died 

With  the  roses  of  June, 
And  our  hearts  must  bow  to  their  fate. 

I  deemed  you  were  false, 

Yet  my  heart  did  not  break, 
And  he  in  my  sorrow  was  true. 

Farewell,  there  are  pathways 

Where  your  feet  can  tread, 
And  I  have  my  duty  to  do ! 


146 


'TIS  DARKEST  ERE  DAY 

When  skies  look  the  darkest  and  clouds  lower  down ; 
When  fierce  sounds  the  warfare  and  storms  angry 

frown  ; 
When  stars  veil  their  beams  and  the  moon  hides  her 

face 
And  darkness  o'ershadows  the  infinite  space, 
Be  not  disheartened,  let  nothing  dismay, 
'Tis  ever  the  darkest  ere  dawning  of  day. 

When  fortune  looks  frowning    and    wealth    taketh 

wings ; 
When  each  morn  some  new  trouble,  some  weary 

care  brings ; 
When  our  pathway  looks  dark,  and  downward  we 

sink — 
Or  stand,  all  despairing,  on  ruin's  frail  brink — 
Be  still  fearless  of  heart,  tho'  sad  seems  the  way, 
'Tis  ever  the  darkest  ere  dawning  of  day. 

So  when  friends  we  most  cherish,  the  loved  friends 

of  old. 
Forget   "Auld   Lang  Syne"   and  grow  stately  and 

cold ; 
When  eyes  that  would  kindle  with  love's  beaming 

smile, 
Now  sparkle  no  more  with  its  bright  witching  guile, 
Let  your  heart  not  be  troubled,  no  sorrow  dismay, 
'Tis  ever  the  darkest  ere  dawning  of  day. 


147 


When  temptation  assails  and  your  heart  faltering 

strays 
In  sadness  and  darkness  from  Virtue's  bright  ways; 
When  grieving  you  gaze  to  the  fair  skies  above, 
And  mourn  o'er  the  sin  that  still  tempts  you   to 

rove — 
Hoping  and  trusting,  come  back  to  the  w^ay, 
'Tis  ever  the  darkest  ere  dawning  of  day. 


148 


TO-MORROW 

Doth  the  rain  and  the  storm-clouds 

Darken  the  day? 
Do  the  hours  seem  dreary 

When  the  sky  looks  gray? 
The  sun  is  still  shining, 

Tho'  storms  make  us  sorrow ; 
'Tis  sure  to  shine 
In  its  own  good  time. 
'Twill  brighter  be  to-morrow. 

Does  the  heart  have  its  trials 

Bitter  to  bear? 
Do  the  tears  fall  thickly 

From  eyes  dim  with  care? 
Hope's  star  is  still  shining, 
Tho'  trouble  we  borrow; 
Its  silver  beam 
Will  brightly  gleam, 
Upon  a  bright  to-morrow. 

Do  the  sin  and  the  sorrow 

That  hedge  us  round, 
Deal  blows  more  quickly, 
Our  spirits  to  wound? 
God's  love  is  around  us, 
In   sunshine  or  sorrow. 
And  we  shall  see 
In  Eternity 
How  bright  'twill  be  to-morrow. 


149 


CUPID 

Beware  of  love,  for  love  is  sure 
To  rack  and  wound  thee. 
Love  is  only  fond  of  joys. 
Friends,  if  true,  desert  thee  never, 
Love  seeks  newer  loves  forever; 
So  beware  of  his  caresses, 
For  he  hurts  those  whom  he  blesses. 
Cupid  is  a  cruel  boy. 

LIFE 

Life  is  an  album  full  of  leaves, 

Like   those  blank  pages  where   no  name   is  writ- 

So  fair,  unspotted,  are  our  infant  days, 

Before  we  tread  in  evil's  many  ways. 

And  other  days  are  like  the  leaves  writ  o'er 
From  which  the  impress  never  will  depart — 
The  pages,  blotted,  spotless  are  no  more — 
Our  deeds  may  leave  their  scars  upon  the  heart. 


150 


THE  ISLE  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  SEA 

In  the  blue  south  seas 

An  islet  shone, 
Like  a  priceless  gem 
In  a  jeweled  zone, 
Or  a  star  on  the  brow  of  night. 
Not  fairer,  I  trow,  could  the  home  have  been, 
Of  Love,  where  he  dwelt  with  his  fairy  queen, 
Nor  brighter  can  glance  the  silver  sheen 
Of  a  cloudless  summer  night. 

Its  valleys  were  wreathed 

With  roses  gay, 
Violets  blue,  and  the 
Eglantine  spray. 
And  bloom  of  the  orange  tree. 
And  the  wildwood  held  in  its  secret  glade. 
The  forest  fay  and  the  elfin  maid. 
And  in  modest  beauty  thus  arrayed, 
Shone  that  isle  of  the  southern  sea. 

Its  skies  were  as  bright 

As  the  gracious  smile, 
Of  the  nj^mphs  that  dwelt 
On  that  sea-girt  isle. 
And  as  clear  as  their  eyes  of  blue. 
And  the  star-rays  fell  with  a  loving  pride, 
In  a  flood  of  light  on  each  mountain  side. 
Till  the  islet  seemed  like  a  fair,  young  bride. 
Half  veiled  by  the  falling  dew. 


151 


The  streamlets  sang  ever 

A  softened  strain, 
To  chime  with  the  ocean's 
Tender  refrain 
When  it  kissed  the  silver  strand. 
And  love  vv^as  the  theme  of  each  song-bird's  lay, 
As  they  trilled  their  songs  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  love  was  the  life  of  each  forest  fay, 
And  the  soul  of  their  happy  band. 

Then  come,  my  love. 

Wilt  thou  fly  with  me. 
And  seek  for  that  isle 
Of  the  southern  sea, 
Where  summer  forever  reigns? 
I  will  build  thee  a  bower  where  the  wild  rose  springs, 
In  the  wildwood  shade  where  the  streamlet  sings, 
Or  the  jasmine  fair  its  white  blossom  flings 
O'er  the  emerald-tinted  plains. 

If  that  isle  still  floats 

On  the  southern  sea, 
I'll  make  it  a  heaven 
Of  love  for  thee; 
A  haven  of  peace  and  rest. 
We'll  float  with  the  tide  under  summer  skies. 
And  ever  before  our  wondering  eyes. 
Shall  visions  of  beauty  and  joy  arise. 
And  every  hour  be  blessed. 


152 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE 

Judea's  hills  lie  far  away 
Toward  the  dawn  of  op'ning  day. 
The  morning  sun  casts  just  as  bright, 
O'er  tower  and  tree  its  smiles  of  light, 
And  in  its  vales,  with  steady  flow, 
Life  ripples  on,  as  long  ago. 

But  from  those  hills  our  Saviour  trod, 
Those  vales  blest  by  the  Son  of  God, 
The  ripples  spread  o'er  every  clime. 
And  make  each  common  life  sublime. 
The  waves  of  time  shall  bear  them  on 
To  generations  yet  unknown. 

And  from  Judea's  cloudless  sky. 

From  those  green  plains  where  shepherds  lie. 

May  rays  of  hope  shine  o'er  the  world, 

Messiah's  standard  be  unfurled; 

And  countless  nations  bless  the  day 

The  Star  arose  to  lead  the  way. 

Down  the  dim  vista  of  the  years. 
Thro'  all  earth's  hopes  and  all  its  fears, 
The  influence  of  its  light  is  found. 
Its  power  is  felt  the  world  around ; 
And  prized  o'er  every  spot  on  earth 
Is  that  blest  by  the  Saviour's  birth. 

And  as  the  restless  waves  of  time 
Bring  Christmas-tide  to  every  clime. 
The  passions  cease,  and  love's  sweet  sway 
Controls  the  heart  this  happy  day ; 
We  feel  the  ripples  on  our  strand. 
Coming  from  far  Judea's  land. 

153 


As  peace  each  troubled  bosom  fills, 
The  peace  foretold  on  Bethlehem  hills, 
As  hearts  throb  back  "good  will  to  men," 
We  hear  the  angels'  song  again, 
And  Christmas  sheds  o'er  all  the  earth 
The  light  that  shone  around  His  birth. 

Then  louder  still  our  anthems  raise. 
Then  lift  our  hearts  in  grateful  praise, 
And  sing  the  angels'  song  once  more, 
Till,  echoing,  it  reach  the  shore; 
Mingling  v/ith  the  murmuring  rills, 
That  sing  His  praise  on  Juda's  hills. 


154 


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BOO.,  .ot  vetuvned  nS  £»  ^^^SS^S^ 
demand  may  be  r        ,iod_^^^^,,,,======== 

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